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QVEEN ELIZABETH IN CIIEAPSIDE. 













































































































SHADES AND ECHOES 


OP 

OLD LONDON. 


BY THE 


IX 



EV. JOHN STOUGHTON. 



PUBLISHED AT THE LEISURE HOUR OFFICE: 

56, PATERNOSTER ROW, AND 164, PICCADILLY. 


SOLD AT RAILWAY STATIONS AND DY THE BOOKSELLERS. 





U'KrxiN • pk:ntki> ny n ii.liam clowf.-. and noks, ptamvokd stkkst 

AND CHAStIKG CUlASb. 


CONTENTS 




Frontispiece (see page 12) 

Introduction ...... 

• w 

• 

• 


• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

PAGE 

2 

7 

SHADES OF THE DEPARTED:— 







17 

I. Milton ..... 







17 

II. Richard Baxter 







29 

III. Isaak Walton and his Friends 







15 

IV. Andrew Marvel and Lord W. Russell 






58 

Y. Margaret Godolpiiin 







69 

VI. Joseph Addison 



. 




79 

VII. Sir Isaac Newton 







92 

VIII. Isaac Watts .... 






• 

101 

IX. Oliver Goldsmith 







121 

X. Sir Joshua Reynolds 







131 

XI. Dr. Samuel Johnson . 







118 

XII. Edmund Burke 







160 

XIII. John Howard .... 







182 

ECHOES OF WESTMINSTER HALL:— 







199 

I. Axe and Hammer 







199 

11. Royal Feastings 







108 

III. Men of the Marble Chair 







217 

IV. Old Parliaments and Policy 







228 

V. Bench and Bar 







238 

VI. State Trials .... 







251 

VII. The Seven Bishops and Sacheverell 







262 

Vin. Jacobites and an Indian Viceroy 







273 


INDEX . 


285 


















. 
















SHADES AND ECHOES OE OLD LONDON. 




INTRODUCTION. 

Time was, when, in the belief of almost everybody, the green 
woods were haunted by fairies ; sylphs might be seen dancing on 
the banks of fresh running streams bv moonlight; and in the 
court-yards of old castles, in the chambers of old towers, and in 
certain memorable parts of old cities, there were strange spirits of 
the past to be met with at the midnight hour. The village maiden, 
as she came back from her walk in the churchyard at sunset, 
fancied she saw some Robin Goodfellow sitting under the hedge, 
or coming out to salute her. The baron’s daughter, in her 
chamber watching the embers on a winter’s evening, with her 
foot on the rude and-irons, and, just as the castle clock struck 
twelve—lifting up her bright eyes to the grim portrait of the man 
in armour over the fire-place—was sure to think that she saw, as 
plain as plain could be, the stalwart figure step out of the canvas, 
and, striding toward the door, open it with a mysterious key, and 
then, with his iron boot, go thump, thump, along the echoing 
corridor. The very warder, as he Kept watch at the still hour 
of nighi, if he saw nought else, would see something not of mortal 
mould , a crusader, not of flesh and blood, but one impalpable ; 01 
a lady fair, all clothed in white, no more to be touched than the 
moonbeam shining through the turret loophole. 




8 


SHADES AND ECHOES OF OLD LONDON. 


Those days are gone by, and we are not sorry. People 
now are neither pleased nor troubled with apparitions of that 
kind. Yet we should not at all like to have this world of 
ours reduced to such a prosaic, matter-of-fact condition, as, in no 
sense, ever to see anything but what, according to the law of 
optics, was painted on the retina of the eye. To say nothing now 
of great spiritual realities, which encircle our globe and inter¬ 
penetrate the scenes of our whole life, we must confess that we 
should be very sorry not to have communion sometimes with the 
shades of the mighty dead, as well as to shake hands and talk with 
the humble living. There are shades of a certain kind which we 
are glad to see. When some of them haunt us it is very pleasant; 
when others of them appear it is very grand ; and they are all 
more accommodating than were those of the olden time. Then, 
when folks called for spirits from the “vasty deep,” there was 
room to ask, “but will they come?” Now the shades we invoke 
always come when they are called for. By day as well as by 
night, they come. In the crowded street as well as the silent soli¬ 
tude, they come. To others they may be invisible, but to us thev 
come. They are the Memories of Great Men ; and if there be one 
place more than another haunted by them, it is Old London. 

Many, many changes have occurred in our mother city. Over 
and over again it has been built and rebuilt. The veiy soil we 
walk upon is an accumulation of remains, in many parts some 
twenty feet above the pavement trodden by the Boman masters of 
that colony, which gave it its time-honoured name. But the ages, 
as they have rolled over London, have left behind them memories 
not subject to the laws of change. The fire of 1666 destroyed 
many a goodly church, and hall, and mansion; but not one of the 
names rendered famous by noble achievements, virtuous deeds, or 
historical associations, could it consume or blacken. Streets alter, 
public edifices disappear, houses are pulled down and new ones 


INTRODUCTION. 


9 


take their place ; but the monuments which consist of the recorded 
actions, and deeds, and thoughts of the great and good, defy the 
accidents of time, and are as imperishable as the heavens. Fiction 
tells us of a city in an African desert where the inhabitants were 
turned to stone, and there they stood the memorials of their once 
living selves. And in Athens there was a second population besides 
the evanescent one that crowded her streets and climbed her 
Acropolis ; even the statues which stood in marble beauty by the 
steps of the temples and the thresholds of the houses. London 
has more enduring memorials of some who once lived within her 
walls ; and has a second population, nobler than the sculptures of 
Greece, and the gods of her mythology. Almost defying cal¬ 
culation as the material wealth of our metropolis may be, 
unparalleled as “the value of its shipping and its stores,” its 
commerce and its money, its estates and their treasures, its arts 
and its manufactures, its antiquities and its curiosities—all that is 
surpassed by the moral wealth of its names and memories. “ No 
material interests, no common welfare can so bind a community 
together and make it strong of heart, as a history of rights main¬ 
tained, and virtues incorrupted, and freedom won ; and one legend 
of conscience is worth more to a country than hidden gold and 
fertile plains.” 

Buildings, dingy and dilapidated, or tastelessly modernized, in 
which great geniuses were born, or lived, or died, are, in con¬ 
nexion with such events, transformed into poetic bowers; and 
narrow, dirty streets, where they are known often to have walked, 
change into green alleys, resounding with richer notes than ever 
trilled from bird on brake. Tales of valour and suffering, of hero¬ 
ism and patience, of virtue and piety, of the patriot’s life and the 
martyr’s death, crowd thickly on the memory. Nor do opposite 
reminiscences, revealing the footprints of vice and crime, of evil 
passions and false principles, fail to arise, fraught with salutary 


10 


SHADES AND ECHOES OF OLD LONDON. 


warnings and cautions. The broad thoroughfare is a channel, 
within whose banks there has been rolling for centuries a river of 
human life, now tranquil as the sky, now troubled as the clouds, 
gliding on in peace, or lashed into storms. 

The history of London is the history of our commerce. Here is 
seen gushing up, in very early times, that stream of industry, 
activity, and enterprise, which from a rill has swelled into a river, 
and has borne upon its bosom our wealth and our greatness, our 
civilization, and very much of our liberty. 

The history of London is a history of our literature. Time 
would fail to tell of all the memorials of genius with which 
London abounds: memorials of poets, philosophers, historians, 
and divines, who there have lived, studied, toiled, suffered, 
and died. No spot in the world, perhaps, is so rich in asso¬ 
ciations connected with the history of great minds. There is 
scarcely one of the old streets through which you ramble, or one 
of the old churches which you enter, but forthwith there come 
crowding over the minds of the well-informed, recollections of 
departed genius, greatness or excellence. 

The history of London is the history of our constitution and 
our laws. There thicken round it most of the great political 
conflicts between kings and barons, and lords and commons; be¬ 
tween feudalism and modern liberty; between the love of ancient 
institutions and the spirit of progress, from which under God have 
sprung our civil government and social order. 

The history of London is the history of our religion, both in its 
corrupted and in its purified forms. Early was it a grand seat of 
Romish worship; numerous were its religious foundations in the 
latter part of the mediaeval age. Here councils have been held, 
convocations have assembled, controversies have been waged, and 
truth has been exalted or depressed. St. Paul’s churchyard and 
Smithfield are inseparably associated with the Reformation. The 


INTEODUCTION. 


11 


principles proclaimed from the stone pulpit of the one could not be 
destroyed by the fires that blazed round the stakes of the other. 
The history of the Protestant establishment ever since is involved 
in that of our city; places connected with its grand events, its 
advocates, and its ornaments, are dear to the hearts of its children ; 
while other spots in London, little known to fame, are linked to 
the memory of the Puritans, and, reverently traced out by those 
who love them, become hallowed ground. 

The shadows of great kings cross our path as we go through the 
streets of ancient London. For example, one sees in the dim 
distance of the fourteenth centurv, Edward the Black Prince re- 
turning from the victory at Poitiers, with John of France as 
captive ; the city making gala day—displaying triumphal arches, 
tapestry, plate, and arms—and thousands of faces peering out at 
windows, from the roofs of houses and down church steeples. Then 
there come gorgeous processions of the prince’s father, with knights 
and squires, on his way to the jousting-place in Smithfield; and 
again the same crowned head is seen with three others—John of 
France, David of Scotland, and the king of Cyprus—riding down 
to Henry Picard’s mansion in the Vintry, to do the city honour 
by feasting at the Lord Mayor’s hospitable board. Henry the 
Sixth, too, meets us on London Bridge, and by the help of John 
Lydgate’s MS. of “ the cominge of the king out of France to 
London,” we are enabled to see all the show ; and brave it is : Lord 
Mayor clothed in velvet, sheriffs and aldermen in scarlet cloaks, 
crafts of the city in white liveries, the king and nobles in polished 
armour, the bridge decked out with towers, and cloth of arras, and 
giants, and emblematical empresses, Nature, Grace, and Fortune, 
and seven maidens full of mystic meaning, and other quaint devices, 
through which the inborn spirit of poetry in those romantic times 
sought to express itself. And later, Queen Elizabeth sweeps 
along Cheapside, in her progress from the Tower to Westminster. 


12 


SHADES AND ECHOES OF OLD LONDON. 


Accompanied by her lords and ladies “all in crimson velvet, and 
their horses trapped with the same,” the new sovereign is escorted 
through the metropolis of her dominions. The city puts itself to 
great expense that its love and joy may be expressed in pageants, 
fountains of wine, music, speeches, verses, and the like. And near 
“ the little conduit at the upper end of Cheapside,” an old man, 
having a scythe and wings, representative of Father Time, issues 
from an artificial cave, leading by the hand another personage 
“ clothed in white silk, gracefully apparelled,” who represents 
Truth, Time’s daughter, having in her hands a book, on which is 
written Verbum Veritatis (the Word of Truth). The lady in white 
makes a speech to the maiden queen, and hands her the sacred 
volume, which is taken by a gentleman, and placed in the royal 
hands. And as soon as she receives it, she kisses it, and holding it 
up, lays it on her breast, and thanks her faithful Londoners for this 
present, saying “ she would often read over that book.” 

Then follow shadows of great poets. There is Chaucer down at 
the Tabard inn, eyeing from the straggling gallery round the yard, 
the motley group preparing for their pilgrimage to Canterbury— 
and beginning already to imprint for all coming ages, the forms 
and ways and words of those average specimens of English folks in 
the fourteenth century, who peopled the houses, or paced up and 
down the thoroughfares of London and Southwark. One searches 
in vain for the place of his birth, though he was a citizen of the 
metropolis ; but a glimpse is caught of him mixed up in municipal 
strife, as a friend of the famous John of Northampton; and also as 
beating a Franciscan friar in Fleet-street, for which the poet had 
to pay a fine of five shillings. Political entanglements brought him 
to the Tower a prisoner, and, some time afterwards, we find him 
quietly renting a house near Westminster Abbey. 

Next we observe his friend, “ the moral Gower,” an inhabitant of 
Southwark—his bones now mouldering in St. Mary Overies— 


INTRODUCTION. 


13 


taking boat from some stairs on the borough side, and meeting 
Richard u. in his stately barge. The monarch invited the 
minstrel on board, and desired him to write “some new thing,” 
whence arose the “ Confessio Amantis and so a production of one 
of England’s early poets becomes associated with the silent highway, 
and his visions are seen floating over those wide waters. 

Shakespeare spent a considerable portion of his time in London, 
and, in the few authentic notices we have of his life story, his name 
is indissolubly associated with the “ Globe,” Bankside, and with 
Blackfriars : but the scanty materials for his biography, which the 
most diligent antiquaries have brought together, afford us scarcely 
any other local memories of the Stratford bard. Yet, in his works, 
there is evidence enough of his acquaintance with London ; and the 
scenes sketched by his magic pencil throw his shadow over East- 
cheap, old St. Paul’s, Smithfield, Crosby House, the Tower, the 
Abbey at Westminster, and the London streets, full of the men 
and women, whom he depicts with life-like touches. And do not 
the stirring times in which he lived—when England was threatened 
with the Armada—when London provided her levies—when the 
masculine queen harangued her troops at Tilbury Fort—appear in 
such passages as the following ?— 

“ King John. What earthly name to interrogatories 
Can task the free breath of a sacred king ? 

Thou canst not, cardinal, devise a name 
So slight, unworthy, and ridiculous, 

To charge me to an answer, as the pope. 

Tell him this tale ; and from the mouth of England, 

Add thus much more,—that no Italian priest 
Shall tithe or toll in our dominions; 

But as we under heaven are supreme head, 

So under Him, that great supremacy, 

Where we do reign, we will alone uphold, 

Without the assistance of a mortal hand : 

So tell the pope ; all reverence set apart, 

To him and his usurp’d authority. 


14 


SHADES AND ECHOES OF OLD LONDON. 


K. Phil. Brother of England, you blaspheme in tins. 

K. John. Though you and all the kings of Christendom 
Are led so grossly by this meddling priest, 

Dreading the curse that money may buy out ; 

And, by the merit ot vile gold, dross, dust. 

Purchase corrupted pardon of a man, 

Who, in that sale, sells pardon from himself; 

Though you, and all the rest, so grossly led 
This juggling witchcraft with revenue cherish; 

Yet I, alone, alone do me oppose 
Against the pope, and count his friends my foes. 
***** 

K. John. The legate of the pope hath been with me. 
And I have made a happy peace with him; 

And he hath promised to dismiss the powers 
Led by the Dauphin. 

Bast. O inglorious league ! 

Shall we, upon the footing of our land, 

Send fair play orders, and make compromise. 

Insinuation, parley, and base truce. 

To arms invasive ? 

***** 

This England never did, nor never shall, 

Lie at the proud foot of a conqueror, 

But when it first did help to wound itself. 

Now these her princes are come home again. 

Come the three corners of the world in arms, 

And we shall shock them. Nought shall make us rue. 

If England to itself do rest but true.” 

“ This royal throne of kings, this scepter’d isle. 

This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars, 

This other Eden, demi-paradise, 

This fortress, built by Nature for herself, 

Against infection and the hand of war; 

This happy breed of men, this little world; 

This precious stone set in the silver sea, 

Which serves it in the office of a wall. 

Or as a moat defensive to a house. 

Against the envy of less happier lands; 

This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England.” 

“ All furnished, all in arms; 

All plum’d, like estridges that with the wind 


INTRODUCTION. 


15 


Bated,—like eagles having lately bath’d. 

Glittering in golden coats,—like images ; 

As full of spirit as the month of May, 

And gorgeous as the sun at midsummer: 

Wanton as youthful goats; wild as young bulls.” 

In sucli majestic verses, we find gathered up the burning words 
of defiance against papal domination, which went from lip to lip 
through London, when awful days of evil seemed coming on. 
Here, too, we have a picture of the goodly array which went out 
at the city gate towards Tilbury—and here the proud patriotism 
which inspired both hosts and queen. 

Shadows of reformers, too, in goodly numbers rise before us; 
Wicliff, Latimer, Ridley, and many more less known to fame. 
St. Paul’s churchyard, for example, and Smithfield, are fraught 
with ennobling reminiscences. We love to think of Henry Mon¬ 
mouth, the alderman who befriended Tyndale, our great translator 
of the Scriptures; we love to think of the people who gathered 
round the old cross, and there caught the fire and inspiration of 
the reformed faith ; we love to think of those who crowded to hear 
the Bible readings, and when the book was proscribed, secreted it 
in their dwellings, and read it at the risk of liberty and life; we 
love to think of those who stood and saw the Bible-burnings, and 
heard the proud anathemas against the study of Heaven’s own 
records, and still went on reading its pages, and drinking in its 
consolations— 

“ Fierce whiskered guards that volume sought in vain. 

Enjoyed by stealth, and hid with anxious pain ; 

While all around was misery and gloom, 

This showed the boundless bliss beyond the tomb. 

Freed from the venal priest, the feudal rod, 

It led the weary sufferer’s steps to God ; 

And when his painful course on earth was run. 

This, his chief wealth, descended to his son.” 

We love to think of those who had piety and courage sufficient to 


16 


SHADES AND ECHOES OF OLD LONDON. 


brave the horrors of Lollards’ Tower, and other dark dungeons, 
and whose faith and firmness enabled them to triumph over the 
last fiery trial; we love to see them, while multitudes look upon 
the painful scene—some mocking the sufferers, some awe-struck at 
their constancy, some strangely turned by a touch of sympathy at 
the sight of so much agony and heroism—lift up their placid 
countenances and hope-beaming eyes to the heaven of liberty and 
love, whose opening portals invite them to enter. 

But we must conclude these general recollections, and proceed 
to notice certain illustrious names of later times, which have left 
their imprint very distinctly in London localities with which 
everybody is familiar. 


17 


SHADES OF THE DEPARTED. 


I MILTON. 

Milton’s memory is one of our most frequent and cherished 
visitants, as we ramble through the streets of London. He meets 
us in many a spot, which his name, like a spiritual presence, 
has hallowed; for from first to last of his earthly history he 
belonged to the mother-city of his native land. It was the scene 
of his birth and burial, and in various localities within its precincts 
he also spent the greater portion of his manhood. His love of the 
beautiful and sublime in nature was not the outgrowth of scenes 
that encircled his infant senses, but was itself a living root of 
poetry in his soul, producing, like leaves and flowers in their spring- 
tide freshness and abundance, those aspirations after the beautiful 
and sublime in nature which led him to go forth in quest of them; 
for he could have said, in the words of one gifted with the like 
endowments, 

“ I was reared 

In the great city—pent mid cloisters dim. 

And saw nought lovely but the sky and stars.” 

We turn out of the tumultuous traffic of Cheapside into Bread- 
street—rather comfortless and melancholy-looking, as it strikes 
U s— a nd soon reach, on the left hand, the site of what was the 
dwelling of John Milton, scrivener; some old house, we fancy, 
which rose like inverted steps, story projecting beyond story, till 
the top, with beetling brows, overshadowed no small portion of the 



IS 


SHADES AND ECHOES OF OLD LONDON. 


narrow street. We know that a sign hung over the door, bearing the 
armorial badge of the family, a spread eagle; and under it we 
seem to stand, on a cold December day, the 20 th of the month, 
in the year of grace 1608 , while there issues from the oak-carved 
doorway, the citizen-inhabitant with his wife, a woman known and 
loved all round the parish for her benevolence ; and a nurse 
bearing in her arms a boy, of whose high mental destiny no one 
of the little party on their way to the church of Allhallows 
could ever dream. The Allhallows church of that day was 
destroyed in the Fire of London; and the edifice now in existence 
is one of Sir Christopher Wren’s, of a totally different character 
from the first; but the parish register remains, exhibiting the 
record of the poet’s baptism; of this a memorial has been in¬ 
scribed on the wall, by the church door in Watling-street, on 
which there is this inscription, rarely read, we apprehend, by the 
passers by:— 

Three poets in three distant ages born, 

Greece, Italy, and England did adorn; 

The first in loftiness of thought surpast; 

The next in majesty ; in both the last. 

The force of nature could no further go, 

To make a third she joined the other two. 

JOHN MILTON 

was born in Bread-street on Friday, the 9th day of December, 1608, and was baptized 
in the parish church of Allhallows, Bread-street, on Tuesday, the 20th day of 

December, 1608. 

Leaving the shade of the infant, we meet in the close vicinity 
of his paternal abode the shade of the schoolboy. Every pas¬ 
senger through St. Paul’s churchyard must have noticed the 
dark imprisoned court, under the colonnade opposite to the east end 
of the cathedral. It makes itself known at times as the playing place 
of the boys in St. Paul’s school, by the sportive shouts and the 
bursts of glee which issue from between the close iron rails 


MILTON. 


19 


St. Paul’s school, in the first quarter of the seventeenth century, 
was quite another sort of building. A gothic edifice in the Tudor 
style then stood upon the site, probably with open courts patched 
over with a little green; and thither wended the boy from the 
Spread Eagle, “ with satchel on back,” to play with his long- 
since forgotten school-fellows. He was studious, and, when 
only twelve years of age, many a time did he sit up till mid¬ 
night, conning his books, thus not only laying the foundation 
of his marvellous scholarship, but of his blindness too. Nor was 
his muse unfledged even then. Ere eleven summers had rolled 
over him, he would sing of “ the golden-tressed sun,” the 
spangled sisters of the night,” and “ the thunder-clasping hand 
of the Almighty.” When a youth he must have had a countenance 
of calm majestic beauty, judging by what he was in manhood ; and 
with this agrees the legend of the Italian lady, who fell in love 
with him as she saw him asleep one day beneath a tree. 

Descending Ludgate-hill to St. Bride’s churchyard, the shade 
revisits us, now risen into manliness, and just returned from 
Italy full of ripe learning and rich taste. Milton took lodgings 
at the house of one Russel, a tailor, and there educated his two 
nephews. And in that noisy lodging-place, he formed acquaint¬ 
ance with Patrick Young, the librarian of Charles I. ; the 
republican and the royalist sympathizing in a common love for 
literature. 

Wherever we meet with the memory of Milton in old London, 
we find the place so changed that we have to bring back the shades 
of departed scenes, as well as of the departed man, to give any thing 
like vivid reality to our image of him. Manuscripts in the middle 
ages were defaced and written over again, but antiquaries have 
deciphered in some cases the original writing, and thus restored the 
book to what it was of old. A like process fancy performs in reference 
to London streets and houses, in these literary perambulations. 


20 


SHADES AND ECHOES OF OLD LONDON. 


Ancient scenes defaced, and covered with modern architecture, we 
endeavour by a little imaginative power to reproduce. It requires 
rather an effort to do this in the next locality sacred to Milton. 
“He made no long stay at his lodging in St. Bride’s church¬ 
yard; necessity for having a place to dispose of his books in, 
and other goods fit for the furnishing of a good handsome house, 
hastening him to take one; and accordingly a pretty garden house 
he took in Aldersgate-street, at the end of an entry, and there¬ 
fore the fitter for his turn, by reason of the privacy, besides 
that there are few streets in London more free from noise than 
that .” Aldersgate-street free from noise ! a garden house there! 
Well, after all we can fancy it, and there we see him plunging 
into prose authorship, and writing eloquent books on ecclesiastical 
reform. He unwisely marries a lady “ accustomed to a great deal 
of company, merriment and dancing,” and little fitted therefore 
to sympathize with him in his severe tastes and classic sort of 
life; so in that garden house there is domestic strife, over which 
we sorrowfully draw a veil. But he continues still to write 
and study, and receives more pupils, when storms assail him 
from without, aroused by the displeasure of the presbyterian clergy. 
Then comes domestic reconciliation with Mrs. Milton, at the house 
of a relation in St. Martin-le-Grand, after which we find him 
settling in a new house in Barbican. There, where had once stood 
the watch-tower of the city, many architectural transformations 
had taken place before Milton’s time; but the Barbican of the 
present day is more altered still. Yet, tradition points to No. 17 , 
now inhabited by a dyer—an altered yet still old-looking house, 
with bay-windows from bottom to top—as being the identical 
abode in which Milton dwelt. We have diligently sought 
out the spot, and been informed by the present inhabitant that 
it is the veritable residence of the great Commonwealth’s poet. 
A neighbour assured us he had gone over the rooms, many 


MILTON. 


21 


years ago, when they preserved unmistakable traces of the 17th 
century. They are altered now. 

Wandering up High Holborn, again the poet meets us, issuing 
from his new dwelling, the back of which opened into Lincoln’s- 
inn-fields. His removal there occurred just after the march of 
the army to London to put down an insurrection which had been 
excited by Massey and Brown. 

Charing Cross, and the region round about, are abundant in 
associations connected with the Commonwealth. Whitehall was 
the residence of Cromwell. In 1649 Milton was appointed Latin 
secretary to the Council of State, and composed those despatches 
and documents in his favourite tongue, which show what a master he 
was of its style and rhythm.* His biographer Symmons informs us, 
that, on his appointment, he removed to a lodging in the house of one 
Thompson, at Charing Cross, and afterwards to apartments in 
Scotland-yard. Scotland-yard is connected with Whitehall, and per¬ 
haps v e should identify Milton’s residence in the former place with 
the lodgings in the palace once occupied by Sir J. Hippesley. 

This glimpse of the poet is vague and indistinct; but such can 
hardly be said of our view of Milton in his next abode. He removed 
to Petty France to a “ house next door to the Lord Scudamore’s, and 
opening into St. James’s Park.” Petty France is now York-street, and 
No. 19 is marked in the London Handbook as the place where Milton 
dwelt. We have been on a pilgrimage to it, expecting to find 
some remains of an aristocratic-looking mansion; indeed we could 
not help fancying we had made a mistake when we entered a 
small cutlery shop. r lhe front is modern, but the back is old, 
probably as old as the time of Milton. The present occupier 

* Art has depicted Cromwell and Milton together—the man of action and the man 
of thought; the latter listening to the apparently oratorical-like dictation of the former. 
We do not think Milton and his master managed things after that fashion. How the 
Protector gave his instructions to the great Latin Secretary we cannot presume to 
imagine. 


22 


SHADES AND ECHOES OF OLD LONDON. 


politely allowed ns to walk into the back room, with a low ceiling 
still preserving marks of age—probably a room in which Milton 
sat. At the back of the house we noticed the inscription, “ Sacred 
to Milton, Prince of Poets,” and looked with intense interest on 
the overhanging cotton willow tree, which Bentham enclosed in his 
garden, and which is said to have been planted by the great Latin 
secretary himself. The garden formerly opened upon the park, in 
what is now called Bird-cage-walk. It was never a large house, and 
shows that the illustrious secretary of the foreign department did 
not then live in much splendour. His salary was only £280 a-year. 

Looking over this house, it is touching to remember that here 
his blindness became complete. A letter dated September 28,1654, 
probably written in one of these very rooms, gives an account of the 
rise and progress of this sad malady. “ It is now about ten years,” 
he says, “ since I first perceived my sight beginning to grow weak 
and dim. When I sat down, my eyes gave me considerable pain. 
If I looked at a candle, it was surrounded by an iris. In a little 
time a darkness covered the left side of the left eye, which was 
partially clouded some years before the other intercepted the view of 
all things in that direction. Objects in front seemed to dwindle in 
size whenever I closed my right eye; this eye too for three years 
gradually failing. A few months previous to my total blindness, 
while 1 was perfectly stationary, everything seemed to swim back¬ 
ward and forward; and now thick vapours appear to settle on my 
forehead and temples, which weigh down my lids with an oppressive 
sense of drowsiness, especially in the interval between dinner and the 
evening. I ought not to omit mentioning that before I wholly 
lost my sights as soon as I lay down in bed, and turned upon either 
side, brilliant flashes of light used to issue from my closed eyes; 
and afterwards, upon the gradual failure of my powers of vision, 
colours proportionably dim and faint seemed to rush out with a 
degree of vehemence, and a kind of inward noise. These have 


MILTON. 


23 


now faded into uniform blackness, such as ensues on the extinction 
of a candle, or blackness varied only and intermingled with a 
dimmish grey. The constant darkness, however, in which I live 
day and night inclines more to a whitish than a blackish tinge; 
and the eye in turning itself round admits, as through a narrow 
chink, a very small portion of light.” How very affecting is this 
detail, especially the allusion to the “ narrow chink ” which 
remained in the dark shutter folded over the windows of the eye, 
to admit mementoes of the precious gift he had for ever lost. 
But his soul bows with Christian patience to the Divine behest:— 

“ Yet I argue not 

Against Heaven’s hand or will, nor bate a jot 
Of heart or hope ; but still bear up, and steer 
Right onward.” 

The lustre of his dark grey eye did not fade after blindness had 
smitten it. His portrait brings him before us, with light brown 
hair parted in the middle and clustering on the shoulders, and a 
countenance which, till manhood was advanced, retained its 
youthful ruddy hue. The remembrance that his stature was of the 
middle height; that he was not at all corpulent, but muscular and 
compact; his gait erect and manly, bespeaking courage and daunt¬ 
lessness ; places in our sight the full-length shade of that illustrious 
personage. Then when we add to it the little anecdote, that he 
wore, as was the custom of the day, a rapier by his side, we seem 
to have the living man, walking in at his garden gate out of St. 
James’s Park, leaning on the hand of a servant. The loss of sight 
was, in a measure, compensated by the exquisite acuteness of his 
hearing. He judged, as blind men are wont to do, of people’s ap¬ 
pearance by their voice. “His ears,” says Richardson, “ were now 
eyes to him.” No doubt, in that home next Lord Scudamore s, 
Milton had his organ and bass viol, and would cheer the hours of 
his unintermitting darkness by music, for which he had a taste by 


24 


SHADES AND ECHOES OF OLD LONDON. 


nature. Milton’s voice is said to have been sweet and harmonious, 
and he would frequently accompany the instruments on which he 
played. 

No longer able to guide the pen, he dictated in this same house 
some of his famous prose works, which, in the nineteenth century, 
are beginning to attract that notice and study too long denied them. 
His “ Defence of the People of England ” was probably written in 
Scotland-yard; but his “ Second Defence,” his “ Treatise of Civil 
Power in Eccclesiastical Causes,” his “ Likeliest Means to remove 
Hirelings out of the Church,” his “Present Means and Brief De¬ 
lineation of a Free Commonwealth,” and some smaller pieces, 
were all produced in the house we are speaking of. We may add, 
that in this same house he lost his second wife, to whom he was so 
tenderly attached. 

But it is time to turn eastward. Changes come, and Milton can 
no longer tarry near the palaces of old England. Too deeply im¬ 
plicated in the proceedings of the Commonwealth, he is forced to 
hide himself after the Restoration. And as we come near Bar¬ 
tholomew-close, looking out of Smithfield, we are not far from the 
place of his temporary concealment. Some friend guided and 
sheltered the blind man from the storm. Its fury past, or turned 
aside by the influence of some who venerated his genius and 
character, Milton goes to live in Holborn, near Red Lion-square, 
and then in Jewin-street. Probably, it was early after the Restora¬ 
tion, and while living in these abodes, that he was not only in 
darkness, but “ with dangers compassed round,” fearing assassina¬ 
tion from some royalist hand, sleeping ill, and restlessly. In the 
latter place he marries his third wife; and there Ellwood, the 
Quaker, is introduced to him—the kind, patient Ellwood, who sits 
for hours reading Latin with a foreign accent, and sometimes little 
understanding what he reads, for the recreation of his now poor 
but illustrious friend. But highly honoured was that same Ellwood, 


MILTON. 


25 


when the great poet put into his hands a manuscript, asking his 
opinion of it—which proved to be the “Paradise Lost.” That 
scene was a little cottage at Chalfont, in Buckinghamshire, where 
Milton had gone during the plague; but in Jewin-street, probably, 
the great poem was nearly brought to its completion. It was the 
work of years. Every former strain prepared for it. Prelusive 
touches had there been from boyhood of rich, sweet, solemn 
harmony; but in “ Paradise Lost ” came out the prolonged oratorio, 
swelling forth from the organ of his soul in notes of bird-like sweet¬ 
ness, in tones of deep-pealed thunder. The history of it is, probably, 
associated with most of the previous residences of Milton, but in 
Jewin-street it was nearly perfected, and in our mind wakens 
some echo of the poet’s song whenever we walk along the pavement 
of that most unpoetic region. 

He leaves Jewin-street—for he was strangely changeful in his 
liking of a residence—and goes to live, we know not where, except 
that it was to lodge awhile in the house of Millington, the celebrated 
auctioneer, whom we greatly love and honour for the story told of 
his leading the bard by the hand when he walked about the 
streets. 

Two doors from the corner of Milton-street, running out of Fore¬ 
street, there is a shop kept by a confectioner, with over-hanging 
stories rising above it, evidently more than 200 years old. That, 
and the adjoining one, were originally united, and there, according to 
local tradition, we have another of Milton’s numerous habitations. 
The house is now mean enough, and never could have been very much 
better; but that circumstance throws no doubt on the tradition, as 
the lot of our bard after the Bestoration was poor and lowly. 

Then we come to his last abode in Artillery-walk, now Artillery- 
place west, Bunhill-fields, in whose vicinity, for Milton’s sake alone, 
we love to linger. While living here, he published both his 
“ Paradise Lost’” and his “ Paradise Regained,” as also the “ Samson 


26 


SHADES AND ECHOES OF OLD LONDON. 


Agonistes,” and other works. But we are thinking now more of 
the man than the author. We see him sitting before his door in a 
grey coat of coarse cloth, in warm, sultry weather, to enjoy the 
fresh air; or, walking in with Dr. Wright, an ancient clergyman 
from Dorsetshire, we find him in a room up one pair of stairs, hung 
with rusty green, sitting in an elbow chair, clothed in black, and 
neat enough, pale, but not cadaverous, his hands and fingers gouty 
. and covered with chalk stones. Were he free from the pain he 
feels, he tells us his blindness would be tolerable. Or we listen to 
him, as he talks with the Laureate Dryden, who admires the 
“ Paradise Lost,” and asks leave to put it into a drama in rhyme. 
Milton, with much civility, tells him, “ he will give him leave to tag 
his verses” 

Milton’s biographers enable us to trace his daily life. He rises 
early; has a chapter in the Hebrew Bible read to him ; then 
meditates till seven; till twelve he listens to reading, in which he 
employs his daughters; then takes exercise, and sometimes swings 
in his little garden. After a frugal dinner, he enjoys some 
musical recreation ; at six he welcomes friends ; takes supper at 
eight; and then, having smoked a pipe, and drunk a glass of 
water, he retires to repose. That repose is sometimes broken bv 
poetic musings, and he rouses up his daughter that he may dictate 
to her some lines before they are lost. 

Although neglected by the great among his countrymen, illus¬ 
trious foreigners search out the man whose literary fame is heard 
through Europe ; and many who came before the fire of London, 
ere they left our shores, found the house in Bread-street, with the 
sign of the Spread Eagle, for even then it was thought a privilege 
to enter Milton’s birthplace. One Englishman of rank, however, 
is said to have visited him, but the visit was most unworthy in its 
motive. The Duke of York, as the story goes, expressed a wish to 
his brother Charles II. to see old Milton, of whom so much was 


MILTON. 


27 


said. The king had no objection, and soon the duke was on his 
way to the poet’s house, where, on introducing himself; a free con¬ 
versation took place between these very “ discordant characters.” 
The duke asked Milton whether he did not consider his blindness 
to be a judgment inflicted on him for writing against the late king ? 
“ If your highness thinks,” he replied, “ that the calamities which 
befall us here are indications of the wrath of Heaven, in what 
manner are we to account for the fate of the king, your father ? The 
displeasure of Heaven must, upon this supposition, have been much 
greater against him than against me; for I have only lost my eyes, 
but he lost his head.” The duke, disconcerted by the answer, 
went his way, and exclaimed on reaching the court: “Brother, 
you are greatly to blame that you don’t have that old rogue Milton 
hanged.” “ Why, what is the matter, James ?” said the monarch ; 
“you seem in a heat. What! have you seen Milton?” “Yes,” 
answered James, “ I have seen him.” “ Well,” said the king, “ in 
what condition did you find him ?” “ Condition—why, he is very 

old, and very poor.” “ Old and poor, well; and he is blind, too, is 
he not ?” “ Yes, blind as a beetle.” “ Why, then,” observed the 

merry monarch, “ you are a fool, James, to have him hanged as a 
punishment; to hang him will be doing him a service ; it will be 
taking him out of his miseries. If he be old, poor, and blind, he 
is miserable enough : in all conscience let him live.” 

But it is time to approach Milton’s last resting-place. St. Giles’s 
church, Cripplegate, is one of the old ecclesiastical structures which 
escaped the Fire of London. It contains the ashes of John Foxe, 
the martyrologist, and John Speed, the historian: the mural tablet 
to the memory of the former, and the effigy which brings before us 
the grave face and quaint costume of the latter, adorn the right 
side of the chancel within the altar rails. But from these and 
other monuments we turn to look at the bust of Milton, placed to 
the left as you enter the church, on the third pillar from the east 


28 


SHADES AND ECHOES OF OLD LONDON. 


end. The spot beneath, now covered with a spacious pew. lias 
been pretty well identified as the poet’s grave. To this last earthly 
home he was borne on the 12th November, 1674, “ the funeral 
being attended,” according to Toland, “ by the author’s learned and 
great friends in London, not without a friendly concourse of the 
vulgar.” Milton’s funeral must, indeed, have been a solemn sight! 
One fancies it slowly winding down from Artillery-walk, through 
the picturesque streets of the seventeenth century. We have just 
visited his grave with deep emotion ; and we learn it is with Milton 
dead, as it was with Milton living, that more foreigners than 
Englishmen visit the church in honour of his memory. 

Yet though we know so much of the dwelling-places of Milton, 
how little do we know of his visible presence and his social inter¬ 
course. There is a mystery about him, rendering the great poet a 
shade in the ghostly sense of the expression ; at least so it appears 
to us. We can imagine honest Isaac Walton easily enough—can 
see him at his business—and go with him a fishing, and, as he takes 
off his glove, can shake him by the hand. We are at home at 
once. And Richard Baxter—we can bring him before our eyes— 
and listen to him as a friend; and there seems nothing to prevent 
our opening his study door and sitting down on a chair beside him, 
to state some case of conscience for his judgment, or some theo¬ 
logical difficulty for his solution. But we stand in awe of Milton. 
There is a magic circle round the man which it would be bold 
indeed to overstep. Flesh and blood he has like other mortals, 
but his sympathies seem to be wholly intellectual and spiritual. 
His inner nature penetrates his outward being, so as to shed an un¬ 
earthly halo round his face and form, his walk and ways. We 
should not call Milton a genial man. Of no interview with him 
could we conceive which might leave the impression of amiableness 
or sociability. Was it possible for him to be domestic—to take 
much interest in common every day life—to chat about the 


RICHARD BAXTER. 


21 

thousand things which most people find interesting now and then ?* 
We are at an utter loss to fancy his conversation with his family 
and friends. It was not magniloquent, for he had no affectation ; 
but surely he spake with an air of grandeur which made folks feel 
that he and they were not walking on the same level. Not solely 
to intellectual pre-eminence do we attribute the production of this 
feeling—for one can fancy Shakespeare as genial enough, making 
his inferiors of a distant class feel themselves at home by his fire- 
side at Stratford. Peculiar habits had from some causes, constitu¬ 
tional, or educational, or circumstantial, withdrawn our classic poet 
and republican philosopher far away from the beaten and crowded 
walks of human kind, and made him what Wordsworth has so truly 
described, a star “ which dwelt apart.” 


II. RICHARD BAXTER. 

One day, filled with thoughts of olden times, we went down to 
Whitehall—the statelv-looking Whitehall—the palace of so many 
English kings—with that fine relic of Inigo Jones’ architecture, 
the banqueting house, still standing, with the memory of some¬ 
thing far different from revelry connected with it. The edifice- 
spread out, and other buildings rose around it; and in the street, 
altogether changed, there stood Holbein’s gateway, with its eight 
medallions. People were going in and coming out, some of them 
with doublets of silk and collars of pointed lace, wide boots ruffled 
with lawn, and short mantles thrown over the shoulders, while their 
heads were crowned with broad-leafed Spanish beavers. There 

* We do not wonder at what we read about the disappointments and misunder¬ 
standings of his married life. It must have been a rare daughter of Eve who was tit 
to be Mistress Milton. 



30 


SHADES AND ECHOES OF OLD LONDON. 


were also men in armour with leather jackets, and people of a very 
staid appearance with Genevan cloaks and lofty wide-brimmed 
hats. We fancied we saw one of them walking with a youth, 
about eighteen years of age, rather sickly looking, with a wonder¬ 
fully intelligent face, a forehead which bespoke thought, eyes 
which flashed with earnestness, and a quick step which showed he 
was not, and never meant to be, an idler. The two were going to the 
lodgings of Sir Henry Newport, master of the revels ; and in at a 
side door, and up an oak staircase, they vanished. The boy was 
Richard Baxter fresh from the country, who had come to seek his 
fortune at court, as so many did ; but he had been brought up in 
Puritan ways of thinking ; and so, as he found that at Whitehall 
comedies were liked better than sermons, and were even played on 
a Sunday afternoon, he was very glad to go home again. The 
youth had read a book by Dr. Sibbs, who lived, and preached, and 
died in Gray’s Inn-lane—a book called “ The Bruised Reed one 
which old Isaac Walton so much valued, that he left it to his 
children ; and that book, in the hands of more than a human 
teacher, had changed his very soul. 

If on Richard Baxter’s first visit to London the wishes of his 
friends had been accomplished, instead of a Puritan theologian 
and a preacher of the gospel of Christ, he had become a cavalier, 
courtier, and a man of fashion, how would the course and issue of 
his days have varied from what they actually became; and how 
infinitely different would have been the eternal harvest from that 
which the holy husbandman has now for some two centuries been 
reaping in the fields of light! 

Walking down the street to Westminster Abbey, we soon saw 
St. Margaret’s church, like a daughter sitting in her mother’s 
shadow; a building whose painted window in the chancel, and 
whose historical associations clustering so thick, have been too 
much thrown into the shade by the architecture and stones of the 


RICHARD BAXTER. 


31 


older and vaster pile. We could not help thinking of Southey’s 
anecdote of Cowper, who, late one evening, was passing through 
the churchyard, and saw a glimmering light which looked very 
mysterious, and on approaching found it to be the lantern of a 
grave-digger, who was just throwing up a skull; an incident which 
struck the tender-minded youth, and left, as he said, the best 
religious impression which he received while at Westminster : but 
the shade that was haunting us belonged to an earlier period; and 
entering the church, we saw him there. The place seemed very 
full; and the congregation was grave and very attentive. It was 
composed of the members of the restored parliament after Richard 
Cromwell had resigned the Protectorate. Everything indicated 
that the times were unsettled—that poor old England’s affairs were 
out of joint—that the vessel of the state was driven about by 
storms, and wanted sadly a strong hand to hold the helm. The 
restoration of the king seemed pretty near, in which some saw 
much of hope. The preacher in St. Margaret’s pulpit on that 
occasion, was no other than the person whom we had seen at 
Whitehall, long since become a minister. He looked much older 
now, for thirty more years had rolled over him, and many cares 
had lined his face. He had on a Genevan gown and broad bands ; 
and the expressive countenance, lighted up with fire as he spoke, 
was surmounted by a round black cap, from under which there 
came out thick locks of dark flowing hair. He spoke of differ¬ 
ences, and the way to heal them, and insisted that a man could 
not be Protestant without being loyal. And so he was for the 
king’s return, and pleaded for some comprehensive scheme that 
should u^ite in the church all contending parties. 

As we pass through St. Paul’s churchyard we are again re¬ 
minded of the Puritan preacher. Old St. Paul’s appears to us as 
it was in the year 1(160; not St. Paul’s with a dome, but St. Paul’s 
with a spire; not with its Italian arcades and decorations, but with 


32 


SHADES AND ECHOES OF OLD LONDON. 


its Gothic aisles and choir, and mediaeval adornments. That broad 
nave is a sort of public promenade and thoroughfare, where 
crowds of London citizens might at times be seen transacting 
business or seeking pleasure ; but now we seem to see it filled with 
a congregation very grave and thoughtful—and well they may be, 
for Richard Baxter is delivering to them one of his characteristic 
discourses, not spiced with political declamation like so many at the 
time of the Restoration, but full of plain scriptural searching truth, 
which makes my Lord Mayor and Aldermen, sitting there in their 
scarlet gowns, look very thoughtful, and causes not a few of the 
crowded audience to tremble and weep. 

His memory haunts many other spots in London. In the street 
called London Wall, there stands one of those old-fashioned edi¬ 
fices, which we meet with here and there in the heart of the Citv 

-—within whose gates, when we enter, we seem to find ourselves in 

<—' ' ' 

another world—some old world from which the inhabitants are 
gone, or only a few are left to keep watch in it; like the halls of 
the Alhambra, desolate and silent, as if time and its troubles had 
left it high and dry upon the beach of antiquity. We mean Sion 
College—a place many people * hear of, and but few see, with its 
almshouses founded by Dr. Thomas White, the vicar of St. Dun- 
stan’s in the West, and its library, the munificent gift of John 
Simson, the rector of St. Olave’s Hart-street. It is still an occa¬ 
sional gathering-place for the London clergy. In Baxter’s time, 
there were famous meetings held there. “We appointed,” says 
lie, “ to meet from day to day at Sion College, and to consult 
there openly with any of our brethren that would please to join, 
that none might say they were excluded. Some city ministers 
came upon us and some came not, and divers country ministers 
who were in the city came also to us; as Dr, Worth, since a bishop 
in Ireland ; Mr. Fulwood, since archdeacon of Totness ; but Mr. 
Matthew Newcomen was most constant among us.” Pausing bv 


RICHARD BAXTER. 


33 


the gateway, among carts and cabs, and porters and merchants’ 
clerks, and men of business of all kinds—who are evidently think¬ 
ing of invoices and bills—we see gliding in and out, worthies of two 
hundred years ago, Richard Baxter the most noticeable by far. On 
entering the fine old library, the dusty square little volumes of Puri¬ 
tan theology seem to drop down from the shelves, and swell into 
veritable presbyterian divines. There they are with gowns, and caps 
—not like the books of square dimensions, but of orthodox round¬ 
ness ; and as they take their seats at the black oak table, Richard 
Baxter is the chief of the party. He spreads out terrifying bundles 
of papers to read to his brethren, full of diverse objections to the old 
order of ecclesiastical government, and arguments in favour of a 
modified scheme like Archbishop Ussher’s; and he pleads against op¬ 
ponents with the skill and dexterity of an accomplished schoolman. 

Linked with Sion College,* not in local neighbourhood, but in 
biographical association, is the Savoy; chiefly noticed now by 
the wayfarer along the Strand, as one of those descending 
avenues to the Thames whence there ever and anon come up 
gigantic coal waggons, which provokingly interruptthe ever flowing 
stream of pavement passengers; but noticed two centuries ago for 
far other things. It had been a palace, a prison, and an hospital. 
There John of Gaunt feasted, and John of France was a cap¬ 
tive ; in Elizabeth’s time, rogues and vagabonds made it their 
“ chief nurserie;” but at the time of which we speak, the chapel 
within it was just being turned into a French church, and other 
parts of it were employed for ecclesiastical purposes. A confer¬ 
ence between certain bishops on the one side, and certain pres- 
byterians on the other, was held there in July, 1661, and is known 
in English history, from the place of meeting, as the Savoy Con¬ 
ference. It was a fruitless attempt at union. There Baxter went 
with Dr. Bates and Dr. Jacomb, and others, expecting to have a 

* Old Sion College was burnt in the Fire of London. 

C 


34 


SHADES AND ECHOES OF OLD LONDON. 


verbal discussion with the opposite party, and by mutual ex¬ 
planations get at harmonious action; but the plan of free talk 
which Baxter loved was overruled, and it was determined that 
he and his brethren should state in writing what they objected 
and what they wanted: whereupon they set to work most dili¬ 
gently, the larger part of the task devolving upon Baxter, who not 
only drew up in the main a huge paper of objections, but entirely 
compiled a reformed liturgy. The poor man complained, and 
well he might, that his papers were never read. Whatever 
may be thought of his opinions, or his papers, his motives 
were above suspicion. Earnestly did he desire union; and beauti¬ 
fully did he say, “ I thought it a cause that I could comfortably 
suffer for, and should as willingly be a martyr for charity as for 
faith.” 

Baxter was one of those men who, honestly intent upon a public 
purpose, sacrifice to it time and toil, and suppose that those with 
whom they must confer, are just as disinterested and sincere as 
themselves. But, like all such persons, he was met by some 
who, whatever might be their professions, were influenced by 
utterly different views and motives, and who were quite willing 
to let him read and write, and think over and digest no end 
of considerations pro and con, while they were letting the ques¬ 
tions which tasked his intellect take a shape and get an answer as 
best they could from worldly politicians, or were themselves, by 
craft and intrigue, securing a settlement of the matters on their 
own side. Thus they attained success by a short and easy cut; 
while good Bichard, in his simplicity, was trying to compass his 
end by a circuit of most conscientious and self-denying labours. 

We must tarry no longer in the Savoy, but hasten off to St. 
Dimstan’s in the West—that handsome church which stands in Fleet- 
street, hard by Chancery-lane. No remains of the old building exist, 
but people by no means old can remember the clock which pro- 


RICHARD BAXTER. 


jected far into the highway, and the two quaint looking figures which 
stood behind to strike the quarters. In that church, Richard Baxter 
used to preach, and amazing congregations of people there were to 
hear the Puritan Demosthenes. Once on a time, he tells us, “ It 
fell out in St. Dunstan’s church, in the midst of a sermon, a little 
lime and dust, and perhaps a piece of a brick or two, fell down in 
the steeple or belfry, near the boys, so that they thought the steeple 
and church were falling, which put them all into so confused a 
haste to get away, that the noise of their feet in the galleries 
sounded like the falling of stones. The people crowded out of 
doors, the women left some of them a scarf, and some a shoe behind 
them, and some in the galleries cast themselves down upon those 
below, because they could not get down the stairs. I sat down in 
the pulpit, seeing and pitying their vain distemper, and, as soon as 
I could be heard, I entreated their silence and went on. The people 
were no sooner quieted and got in again, and the audience com¬ 
posed, but some who stood upon a wainscot bench, near the com¬ 
munion table, brake the bench with their weight, so that the 
noise renewed the fear again, and they were worse disordered than 
before. One old woman was heard at the church door asking 
forgiveness of God for not taking the first warning, and promising, 
if God would deliver her this once, she would take heed of coming 
hither again. When they were again quieted, I went on.” Bates 
tells us he improved the catastrophe by saying, “We are in the 
service of God to prepare ourselves, that we may be fearless at 
the great noise of the dissolving world, when the heavens shall 
pass away, and the elements melt with fervent heat.” 

As we go by St. Bride’s, the shadow of Baxter going in to preach, 
meets us there. As we walk through Milk-street—upon which, 
as the birthplace of Sir Thomas More, Fuller could not help 
perpetrating the pun. that “he was the brightest star that ever 
shone in that Via Lactea ”—again we are reminded of our zealous 


36 


SHADES AND ECHOES OF OLD LONDON. 


divine, for there he shone as a guiding star to Christ, and there 
he tells us that Mr. Ashhurst and twenty citizens desired him 
to preach a lecture, for which they allowed him 40 1. per annum. 
The parish church of St. Anne’s, Blackfriars, is no more, having 
never been rebuilt after the Fire of London (the church of St. 
Andrew by the Wardrobe serving instead): had it remained, it 
too would have been by association suggestive of Baxter’s eloquent 
memory. 

There is a church in King-street, Cheapside, called St. Lawrence 
Jewry. We recollect stepping in one evening when service was 
being performed, and not a dozen people were scattered over the 
place. On its site there stood, before the Fire, a church, described 
by Stowe as “ fair and large,” which presented a startling con¬ 
trast to the miserable desolation in service time of its architec¬ 
turally pretentious successor. Baxter was asked to preach there. 
He tells us he had no time to study, and was “ fain to deliver a 
sermon which he had preached before in the country.” So immense 
was the crowd gathered to hear him, that though he sent the day 
before to secure room for Lord Braghill, and the Earl of Suffolk, 
yet when they came, there was no possibility of getting near 
enough to listen. So they had to go home again. The Earl of 
Warwick stood in the lobby, and the minister of the church was 
obliged to sit in the pulpit behind the preacher. “ He was fain to 
get up into the pulpit,” says Baxter, “ and sit behind me, and I 
stood between his legs.” We can imagine the congregation in that 
old church:—aisles, galleries, and stairs filled to overflowing— 
the people clustering about the windows like bees—all intent 
upon what the preacher was saying, as with awful earnestness he 
warned them against the sin of “ making light ” of the gospel and 
of Christ. 

“ Men,” said he, “ have houses and lands to look after, they have 
w r ife and children to mind, they have their body and outward estate 


RICHARD BAXTER. 


37 


to regard; therefore, they forget that they have a God, a Redeemer, 
a soul to mind. These matters of the world are still with them. 
They see these; but they see not God, nor Christ, nor their souls, nor 
everlasting glory. These things are near at hand, and therefore work 
naturally, and so work forcibly ; but the others are thought on as a 
great way off, and therefore too distant to work on their affections 
or be at the present so much regarded by them. Their body hath 
life and sense; therefore, if they want meat or drink or clothes, 
will feel their want and tell them of it, and give them no rest till 
their wants be supplied, and therefore they cannot make light of 
their bodily necessities: but their souls in spiritual respects are 
dead, and therefore feel not these wants, but will let them alone 
in their greatest necessities, and be as quiet when they are starved 
and languishing to destruction as if all were well and nothing ailed 
them. And hereupon poor people are wholly taken up in pro¬ 
viding for the body, as if they had nothing else to mind. They have 
their trades and callings to follow, and so much to do from morning 
to night, that they can find no time for matters of salvation. Christ 
would teach them, but they have no leisure to hear him. The 
Bible is before them, but they cannot have time to read it. A 
minister is in the town with them, but they take no opportunity 
to go and inquire of him what they should do to be saved. And 
when they do hear, their hearts are so full of the world and carried 
away with their lower matters, that they cannot mind the things 
which they hear. They are so full of the thoughts, and desires, 
and cares of this world, that there is no room to pour into them the 
waters of life. The cares of the world do choke the word and 
make it unfruitful. Men cannot serve two masters, God and 
mammon ; but they will lean to the one and despise the other. He 
that loveth the world, the love of the Father is not in him. Men 
cannot choose but set light by Christ and salvation, while they 
set so much by any tiling on earth. It is that which is highly 


38 


SHADES AND ECHOES OF OLD LONDON. 


esteemed among men that is abominable in the sight of God. Ob, 
this is the ruin of many souls ! To see bow the world fills people’s 
mouths, their bands, their bouses, their hearts, and Christ hath little 
more than a bare title to come into their company, and to hear no 
discourse but about the world; to come into their houses, and to 
hear and see nothing but for the world, as if this world would last 
for ever, or would purchase them another. When I ask sometimes 
the ministers of the gospel how their labours succeed, they tell me, 
‘ People continue still the same, and give themselves up wholly to 
the world, so that they mind not what ministers say to them, nor 
will give any full entertainment to the word, and all because of 
this deluding world.’ ” 

Now, that was preaching of a kind to rouse attention and excite 
inquiry, and carry home burning truths to the hearts of men; and 
with a beseeching voice and melting manner, such as Baxter is said 

o O 7 

to have commanded, it was just the preaching, not only to gather 
crowds, but to create a revival of religion and save the souls of 
men. Sylvester says of him, with as much force as quaintness, 
“ He had a moving pathos and useful acrimony in his words, neither 
did his expressions want that emphatical accent which the matter 
did require. When he did speak of weighty concerns you might 
find his very spirit drenched therein.” 

We must walk down to the Borough, and pause by the Park- 
street brewery, to remember that there stood formerly a timber 
edifice, where Mr. Wadsworth’s congregation was accustomed to 
assemble. “Just when I was kept out of Swallow-street,” says 
Baxter, “his flock invited me to Southwark, where, though I 
refused to be their pastor, I preached many months in peace, there 
being no justice willing to disturb us.” 

Passing through Bloomsbury-square, we are again in the foot¬ 
steps of this persecuted one. There he lived in what he calls his 
“pleasant and convenient house,” and there died Mistress Margaret, 


RICHARD BAXTER. 


3 !) 

his wife,—of whom Howe said, in his funeral sermon for her, that 
she displayed “a strangely vivid and great wit, with very sober 
conversation/’ 

Baxter was sent to gaol. We see him taken there as we pass by 
Clerkenwell prison; but have far more vivid images of him and his 
sufferings as we visit Westminster Hall and the King’s Bench. A. 
thousand memories gather round the former from the time when 
Rufus built the first edifice down to the present day; but among 
the crowds of the good and the evil, w r ho, as we pace up and down 
beneath the oak-raftered roof, “ come like shadows, so depart,” we 
single out, with special honour, our great divine; and there, in the 
Court of King’s Bench, we think we see the whole of the process— 
for trial it cannot be called—before the infamous Jeffreys, when 
Baxter was arraigned and sentenced for publishing his notes on the 
New Testament. There sits the Chief Justice in his ermine. There 
are the counsel for the prosecution and the defence. There 
stands, in conscious rectitude, the arraigned, like Paul before 
Festus. We hear the miserable mockery of the Puritans from one 
who ought to have held even-handed the balance of justice, squeak¬ 
ing and snorting in pretended imitation of their tone and manner ; 
and we catch the smart reply of Pollexfen, Baxter’s counsel: 
“ Why, my lord, some will think it hard measure to stop these 
men’s mouths, and not let them speak through their noses.” Then 
comes a torrent of abuse: “ Come, what do you say for yourself, 
you old knave. I’m not afraid of you for all the snivelling calves 
you have got about you *'•—looking at the people in tears. “ Does 
your lordship think any jury will pretend to pass a verdict upon me 
upon such a trial ?” asks Baxter. “ I’ll warrant you, Mr. Baxter,” 
says the man in the red robe ; “ don’t you trouble yourself about 
that.” No story more arouses our indignation than this of the 
doings at Westminster in 1685. 

Matthew Henry visited Baxter when he was confined within the 


40 


SHADES AND ECHOES OF OLD LONDON. 


rules, and found him cheerful and resigned. He savs : “ I went 
into Southwark, to Mr. Baxter; I was to wait upon him once before, 
and then he was busy. I found him in pretty comfortable circum¬ 
stances, though a prisoner, in a private house near the prison, at¬ 
tended on by his own man and maid. My good friend, Mr. S(amuel) 
L(awrence), went with me. He is in as good health as one can 
expect; and, methinks, looks better, and speaks heartier, than when 
I saw him last. The token you sent, he would by no means be 
persuaded to accept, and was almost angry when I pressed it. From 
one oated as well as himself, he said he did not use to receive, 
and I understand his need is not great. We sat with him about 
an hour. I was glad to find that he so much approved of my pre¬ 
sent circumstances. He said he knew not why young men might 
not improve as well as by travelling abroad. He inquired for his 
Shropshire friends, and observed that of those gentlemen who were 
with him at Wem, he hears of none whose sons tread in their father’s 
steps but Colonel Hunt’s. He inquired about Mr. Macworth’s and 
Mr. Lloyd’s (of Aston) children. He gave us some good counsel 
to prepare for trials ; and said the best preparation for them was 
a life of faith, and a constant course of self-denial. He thought it 
harder constantly to deny temptations to sensual lust and pleasures, 
than to resist one single temptation to deny Christ for fear of suffer¬ 
ing—the former requiring such constant watchfulness ; however, 
after the former, the latter will be the easier. He said, we who 
are young are apt to count upon great things, but we must not look 
for them ; and much more to this purpose. He said he thought dy¬ 
ing by sickness usually much more painful and dreadful than dying 
a violent death : especially considering the extraordinary supports 
which those have who suffer for righteousness’ sake.” 

This leads us to Charterhouse-square, where once Venetian 
ambassadors lived in palaces. Howell says, in 1651, “ The 
yard hath lately been conveniently railed, and made more 


RICHARD BAXTER. 


41 


neat and comely.” There are still rails but no palaces ; yet have 
the houses an air of old-fashioned comfort and old English domes¬ 
ticity. Baxter died in Charterhouse-square. We have tried to 
ascertain whether the house is in existence, but i 1 vain ; yet we 
can never go near it without thinking of his calm, hopeful, joyous 
deathbed, thus described by his friend Sylvester:— 

“I went to him, with a very worthy friend, Mr. Mather, of New 
England, the day before he died; and speaking some comforting 
words to him, he replied, ‘I have pain ; there is no arguing against 
sense, but I have peace, I have peace.’ I told him, you are now 
approaching to your long-desired home; he answered, ‘ I believe, 
I believe.’ He said to Mr. Mather, ‘ I bless God that you have 
accomplished your business ; the Lord prolong your life.’ He ex¬ 
pressed great willingness to die; and during his sickness, when the 
question was asked, ‘How he did?’ his reply was, ‘ Almost well .’ 
His joy was most remarkable, when in his own apprehensions 
death was nearest; and his spiritual joy was at length consum¬ 
mated in eternal joy. 

“ On Monday,” says Sylvester, “about five in the evening, death 
sent his harbinger to summon him aw\ay. A great trembling and 
coldness extorted strong cries from him, for pity and redress from 
Heaven ; which cries and agonies continued for some time, till at 
length he ceased, and lay in patient expectation of his change. 
Being once asked by his faithful friend and constant attendant in 
his weakness, Mrs. Bushel, his housekeeper, whether he knew her 
or not, requesting some sign of it if he did ; he softly cried, ‘Death, 
death !’ He now felt the benefit of his former preparations for the 
trying time. The last words that he spoke to me, on being informed 
I was come to see him, ‘ Oh, I thank him, I thank him and turn¬ 
ing his eye on me, he said, ‘ The Lord teach you how to die.’ ” 

In Christ Church, near the communion table, we stand over his 
grave. There his beloved Margaret was entombed in 1681. It was 

c 2 


42 


SHADES AND ECHOES OF OLD LONDON. 


the highest next the old altar or table in the chancel, on which her 
daughter had caused a very fair, rich, large marble stone to be laid 
twenty years before. The fair, rich marble stone was broken in the 
Fire of London. The church was in ruins when Mrs. Baxter was 
buried there. The present edifice was rising to its completion when, 
in 1691, the laborious minister of Christ was buried beside his wife. 

Richard Baxter was one of the most earnest workers that the 
world ever saw. Many an old church in London echoed with 
his earnest preaching. Many an old house could bear witness to 
his earnest pastoral visitations. Many a quiet study—for the good 
man had often to change his abode, in those troublous times—saw 
his earnest reading, writing, watching, and praying. Many a 
printing press was occupied in the production of the books he 
wrote ; which, as we number the reprints on our shelves, and think 
of those which have never reached a modern edition, make us 
feel that it would fill any man’s life with hard work to write out 
all those pages for the printers’ hands. And many a MS. in Dr. 
Williams’ library, never published, affords additional evidence, as 
we can testify from personal examination, of Baxter’s almost 
unparalleled industry. 

To notice one memorial of Baxter of another kind. In the 
British Museum is preserved a large stone resembling the kidney 
in shape, extracted after his death, the symbol of his intense suffer¬ 
ings. The catalogue he gives of his diseases is quite appalling. He 
seems to have had centred in his frail body all the ills that flesh is 
heir to. It is wonderful to think of his afflictions,—of what deep 
waters he had to wade through,—what terrible billows he breasted, 
and how the floods rose higher as life advanced—how the sharpest 
trials were the last. Richard Baxter’s life would be to us an utterly 
hopeless mystery, did we not believe in Him who has brought life 
and immortality to light by the gospel, and who, by the discipline 
of pain as well as of labour, prepared him for the restful services of 


ISAAK WALTON AND HIS FRIENDS. 


43 


another and a higher existence. Some are fitted for heaven bv 
toil alone—or chiefly ; others by tears alone—or chiefly. Baxter 
underwent both kinds of meetening for the inheritance of the 
saints, and in almost equal degrees. Now he is where they serve 
but do not suffer; where they work, but do not weep; where 
the cessation of pain is experienced, and the discipline of pain is 
ended, and the mystery of pain is fully and for ever solved. 


III. ISAAK WALTON AND HIS FRIENDS 

Perhaps a scene of greater bustle, compressed in a space so 
narrow, could hardly anywhere be found, than may be daily 
witnessed about noon, and for some hours afterwards, in the 
immediate vicinity of Temple Bar. What a host of jostling way¬ 
farers on the pavement—like motes in a sunbeam—pressing on, as 
if heedless of one another’s presence, exhibiting very plainly 
curious specimens of mental abstraction, and affording inex¬ 
haustible materials for speculation on their thoughts and schemes. 
How the crowd stops, swells, gurgles, at the corner of Chancery- 
lane,—like a dammed-up mill-stream,—while some gigantic waggon 
or awkward omnibus impedes the passage, and leaves eager walkers 
on both sides like people on the shores of a river waiting for a 
ferry-boat. Then, how confused is the assemblage of vehicles in 
the middle of Fleet-street, rattling with noisy earnestness and 
terrific speed, till, like a huge mass of machinery, it overdoes 
itself, a piece gets out of order, and the whole is stopped. And 
now what perplexity and impatience! Omnibuses, carts, carriages, 
cabs, coaches, barrows, locomotive advertisers, and other indes¬ 
cribable things, become locked—anything but lovingly—in each 
other’s embrace; some elegant chariot striving to get free from 



4-i 


SHADES AND ECHOES OF OLD LONDON. 


the arms of a brewer’s dray, or some aristocratic “ Clarence ” 
tearing itself from the rude clasp of a plebeian “ Hansom.” A 
little opening made, and no leaders of a forlorn hope ever more 
boldly rush into the breach, than do barristers with wigs, and 
attorneys with blue bags, and bankers’ clerks with leather cases 
full of bills, plunge into the vacant space, and thread their way 
through its perilous windings. 

Are there any shadows of bygone times and men departed, 
bringing up memorials of the solemn, romantic, picturesque, and 
tender, meeting us amidst this scene of bustle ? Indeed there are. 
If there be no spot more strikingly expressive of the present, there 
is not one in London more richly and variously redolent of the 
past. Here we are in the midst of the old inns of court, which 
arose in the infancy of the legal profession in England, and which 
were in the full bloom of their quaint dramatic splendour in the 
reign of James I. Under the narrow gateway, nearly opposite 
Chancery-lane, you enter the Temple, now the home of lawyers, 
once the abode of knights, who, in coats of mail and cross-decked 
mantles, reined their steeds in gaudy procession along this thorough¬ 
fare ; or bowed their knees on the pavement of the famous round 
church, whose architecture places us in the very midst of the 
thirteenth century. Yonder house, with some traces of antiquity 
lingering on it still, was once, as the inscription on it imports, the 
palace of Henry vm. and Cardinal Wolsey; and one sees bluff 
Harry and the cardinal issuing forth from long since vanished portals 
on their way to the setting of the city watch on Midsummer 
eve. And is not Temple Bar—not the original Temple Bar, it 
is true, but yet a building carrying us back 'to 1070, the work of 
Sir Christopher Wren,—associated with many city scenes since 
then, full of the antique spirit; especially that oft-repeated one, 
when the kings and queens of England and their marshals have 
paused there, and knocked for entrance, asking for admission from 


ISAAK WALTON AND HIS FRIENDS. 


45 


my lord mayor ? It tells of rebellions and of cruel punishments, 
when spiked heads were the grim adornments of the gate; and 
leads ns to thank Almighty God for the more peaceful and 
humane habits of the present day. 

But it is not our intention to call back the shades of knights 
templars, or great lawyers, or city functionaries; nor yet to 
walk and talk with the spirits of the famous wits, from Ben 
Jonson to Addison, who frequented the house now turned into 
Child’s bank; nor yet to step in and look at Goldsmith, in his 
lodgings within Brick-court, or Johnson, at No. 1, Middle Temple- 
lane : that we .may do some future day. Our thoughts are now 
fixed on one who was far removed in habit from men of the sword, 
gentlemen of the bar, and civic officials, but who, though neither 
a professed poet or philosopher, had in him some elements of 
both. We are thinking of old Isaak Walton, the immortal angler. 

This seems hardly the place for meeting him. We associate 
his name with silvery rivers and green meadows, trout streams 
and shady banks. How distinctly does his form, in the costume of 
the seventeenth century, appear before us, and how smilingly 
does his open countenance, with flowing hair, give us friendly 
greeting as we ramble alongside of the Lea, near Hoddesdon. 
And then in Dovedale—the romantic Dovedale—as we once 
wandered through its rock-girt and tree-crested avenues, and sat 
down and watched the stream,—and the floating of dead leaves 
we threw into the water—did we not see Isaak himself, with rod 
and line and basket; and, as evening drew on, and the hills be¬ 
came a dark blue, and a deep shade gathered over the dale, did 
we not seem to hear him bidding good night to the scene of 
his day’s sport, saying, “ Go thy way, little Dove; thou art the 
prettiest of rivers, and the fullest of fish, that I ever saw ?” But, 
after all, with the neighbourhood of Temple Bar, Isaak Walton had 
more to do than with either the Lea or the Dove. It was here he 


16 


SHADES AND ECHOES OF OLD LONDON. 


lived. We have no traces of his house remaining now, but we 
can identify the site. There lies before us an old print of part of 
Fleet-street, showing the end of Chancery-lane. It reminds us 
more of a street in old Paris, or Frankfort, or some Flemish city, 
than of anything to be found in the vicinity now. There is a tall 
narrow house of five stories at the corner, with bay windows carved 
and adorned in front, the edges of the stories supported by odd¬ 
looking corbels like caryatides, and the old dwelling crowned 
with a thatch roof. The second, a narrower strip of building, is a 
little modem ; then comes the third, lower and broader than the 
first, with windows along the whole front. Here lived Isaak 
Walton. 

Sir John Hawkins found an old deed, dated 1624, in which this 
house is described as abutting on a house bearing the sign of the 
“ Harrow,” and as being in the joint occupation of Isaak Walton 
and John Mason, hosier; whence he concludes that half a shop 
was sufficient for the business of Walton. This makes some 
critical antiquaries rather angry. They consider Isaak was a 
man of more worldly importance than this would indicate. He 
was a Hamburgh merchant, say they, not needing much frontage, 
but letting a part of it off to a hosier, while he retained the whole 
dwelling-house. Be it so; it appears not unlikely that Walton 
was above a little shopkeeper, since he had alliances and friend¬ 
ship with the great and wealthy. Walton took this house, we 
may imagine, in consequence of his intending to get married, for 
in 1623 he began, he says, a happy affinity with the family of his 
first wife, Rachael Floud, a descendant of Archbishop Cranmer, to 
whom he was married in 1626. 

Walton was born at Stafford, on the 9th of August, 1593, and it 
is conjectured that he served his apprenticeship, as a hosier, to 
a relation of his of the same name in Whitechapel. Shadows of 
the boy Walton—belonging to a time when London apprentices 


OORXEU OF FLEET-STREET ANU CHANCERY-LAXE. ISAAK WALTON'S I10TCSE 














































































































































































































































































































































































































































































' 




' 





























































ISAAIv WALTON AND HIS FRIENDS. 49 

were still a distinct and recognised class, though less boisterous 
and ungovernable than they had been—may therefore flit before 
our eyes the next time we go into that region of butchers’ shops; 
but it is in Fleet-street, No. 3 from Chancery-lane, that we get 
our first distinct view of the genial fisherman. He did not publish 
his “ Angler” there, nor any of his works; yet with the hosiery or 
Hamburgh trade, we doubt not, he associated, when a young man, 
not only his love for the rod and line, but an inkling after old 
books. He not only visited Mr. Margrave, who dwelt among the 
booksellers in St. Paul’s churchyard—and Mr. John Stubbs, near to 
the “ Swan,” in Golden-lane, to purchase tackle—and went out on 
fine May mornings for a fishing excursion in the neighbourhood of 
Ware—and snatched a few hours on a summer day to throw in 
a line from London Bridge for the “ leather-mouthed ” roach, which, 
he says, were there “ the largest and fattest in this nation,”— 
but he sat down many a long winter night, with his wife Bachael, 
conning black-letter volumes of history, divinity, and poetry. And 
we may well fancy that though none of his own works issued from 
the press while he lived in Fleet-street, there were in that old 
house growing up within him, some of the curious thoughts he 
expressed in his “ Angler,” for the book is an image of himself— 
just a revelation of the man Walton—as his brother-in-law 
Bobert Floud, a frequent visitant no doubt at Fleet-street, used 
afterwards to tell him:— 

“This book is so like you, and you like it, 

For harmless mirth, expression, art, and wit, 

That I protest ingenuously, tis true, 

I love this mirth, art, wit, the book and you.” 

Most probably, too, in this very house he began to collect 
materials for his charming “ Life of Master Richard Hooker;'’ since 
George Cranmer, his wife’s uncle, with whom, at the time we refer to, 
Walton must have been on intimate terms, had been one of Hooker’s 


50 


SHADES AND ECHOES OF OLD LONDON. 


pupils. It requires no great stretcli of imagination to see and 
overhear Walton and Cranmer talking about old times; the latter 
telling the former of the great divine, his manner of life, his 
learning and meekness, his devotion and charity; and the former 
putting down, from the lips of the latter, in the thick cramped 
hand-writing with which his autographs have made us familiar, 
facts and observations which became the germ of this invaluable 
piece of biography. 

We are also within a few paces of another dwelling, in which 
the author and angler domiciled. Ten years after he came to 
Fleet-street, he went to live a few doors up Chancery-lane ; there 
two sons were born, and his poor wife died, in 1640, after giving 
birth to an infant daughter. The same year Walton published 
his “Life of Dr. Donne,” prefixed to the sermons of that elo¬ 
quent divine. He also is one of the genii loci belonging to the 
region, and his shadow meets us in company with his illus¬ 
trious parishioner, for he was vicar of the parish of St. Dunstan, 
to which the house we have noticed belongs. We can see the 
vicar, with cropped hair, open forehead, arched eyebrows, full 
eyes, handsome nose and lips, thick moustache, peaked beard, 
and high ruffed collar, sitting in the brown oak parlour of his 
friend; and then we go with Walton to the church of St. Dunstan, 
when Donne preached from the text, “ To God the Lord belong 
the issues of death ” “ Many that then saw his tears,” says Walton, 
“and heard his faint and hollow voice, professed they thought 
the text prophetically chosen, and that Dr. Donne had preached 
his own funeral sermon .” The good man was well fit to die, for 
Walton tells us he said: “ Though of myself I have nothing to 
present to him but sin and misery, yet I know he looks not upon 
me now as I am of myself, but as I am in my Saviour, and hath 
given me even at this present time some testimonies by his Holy 
Spirit that I am of the number of the elect; I am therefore full 


ISAAK WALTON AND HIS FRIENDS. 


51 


of inexpressible joy, and shall die in peace.” In anticipation of 
his death, the worthy divine did an odd thing with a pious intent? 
which had in it a dash of quaintness rather peculiar even in that 
quaint age. “ A monument being resolved on,” Walton tells us, 
“ Dr. Donne sent for a carver to make him in w r ood the figure 
of an urn, giving him directions for the compass and height of 
it, and to bring with it a board of the just height of his body. 
These being got, then without delay a choice painter was got, 
to be in readiness to draw his picture, which was taken as followeth: 
Several charcoal fires being first made in his large study, he 
brought with him into that place his winding-sheet in his hand, 
and having put off all his clothes, had this sheet put on him, and 
so tied with knots at his head and feet, and his hands so placed, as 
dead bodies are usually fitted to be shrouded and put into their 
coffin or grave. Upon this urn he thus stood, with his eyes shut, 
and with so much of the sheet turned inside as might show his 
lean, pale, and death-like face, which was purposely turned toward 
the east, from wdience he expected the second coming of his and 
our Saviour, Jesus. In this posture he was drawn at his just 
height, and when the picture was fully finished, he caused it to 
be set by his bedside, where it continued and became his hourly 
object till his death, and was then given to his dearest friend and 
executor, Dr. Henry King, then chief residentiary of St. Paul’s, 
who caused him to be thus carved in one entire piece of white 
marble, as it now stands in that church.” 

This strange sort of monument is preserved, with other relics 
of old St. Paul’s, in the crypt of the present cathedral. Just after 
the picture was drawn as above described, Donne “sent for 
several of his most considerable friends, of whom he took a solemn 
and deliberate farewell, commending to their considerations some 
sentences useful for the regulation of their lives, and then dis¬ 
missed them, as good Jacob did his sons, with a spiritual benedic- 


52 


SHADES AND ECHOES OF OLD LONDON. 


tion.” We enter the bed-chamber, cold and stately, with wainscot 
furniture and tester bed. and there see the faithful and affectionate 
Walton, whose soul was formed to be an altar for the fire of friend¬ 
ship, reverently bending over his loved and honoured minister. 
He tells us of unknown mournful friends who repaired to the 
tomb of “Donne, as Alexander the Great did to the grave of 
the famous Achilles, and strewed it with an abundance of curious 
and costly flowers.” We are ready to think he was himself one of 
the number. How beautiful the reflection he makes over the 
sepulchre in old St. Paul’s: “ He was earnest and unwearied in 
the search of knowledge, with which his vigorous soul is now 
satisfied, and employed in a continual praise of that God who 
first breathed it into his active body—that body which once was 
a temple of the Holy Ghost, and is now become a small quantity 
of Christian dust. But,” he adds, with sublime simplicity—the 
noble fruit of Christian faith—“ I shall see it reanimated.” 

Walton did not remain long in the parish after Donne had gone 
to heaven. His many bereavements there threw sad associations 
over the place. He could not read, and go a-fishing pleasantly as 
he had done. His losses made him look at things in the 
neighbourhood through a melancholy medium, which darkly tinged 
all he saw; so he took leave of the place, and we lose sight of him 
for awhile altogether. He goes off into darkness and silence, 
whither the antiquaries follow and look for him in vain, till years 
after his shadowy presence brightens upon us somewhere about 
Clerkenwell. 

Troublous times came over England in 1640, indeed had long 
before come over it, but now burst into a storm. London was 
often in fierce commotion. King and parliament, parliament and 
royal army, agitated the citizens from Temple Bar to Whitechapel. 
Men plunged into political strife, felt with vehemence, and acted 
with energy. Out of all this the shadow of our angler seems to 


ISAAK WALTON AND HIS FRIENDS. 


53 


glide away in quest of nature’s peace and loveliness. While Cavalier 
and Puritan were sharpening their swords for earnest strife, “ Isaac 
went out to meditate in the field at the eventide.” He was no 
party man, and had friends whom he retained on both sides, though 
his sympathies were doubtless with the royalists; and, indeed, we 
find him entrusted with one of the badges of the order of the garter 
—the lesser George, as it is called, which Charles u. had delivered 
up to a friend for safe keeping after the battle of Worcester. “ It 
was,” says Ashmole, a friend of Walton’s, “ strangely preserved by 
Colonel Blague, one of that king’s dispersed attendants, who 
resigned it for safety to the wife of Mr. Barlow, of Blarepipe 
House, in Staffordshire, where he took sanctuary; from whom 
Kobert Mil ward, Esq., received and gave it into the hands of Mr. 
Isaak Walton, (all loyalists). It came again into Blague’s posses¬ 
sion, then prisoner in the Tower, whence making his escape, he 
restored it to King Charles n.” We suppose Walton gave or sent 
the treasure to the captive in the Tower. The quiet man of the 
angle was trustworthy and unsuspected. “ He was well known,” 
says his friend in the herald’s office, and as well beloved of all 
good men.” 

Walton has been vastly praised for his moderation, meekness, 
and quietness. He disliked “ the active Romanists,” and “ the 
restless Nonconformists,” and was himself “ one of the passive and 
peaceable Protestants ” whose character he so much preferred. 
Now, with all our love and veneration for honest Isaak, we must 
think that this same peaceableness of his has been over-estimated. 
“ In general and most certainly,” says Dr. Arnold, “ with our 
country life, and our English constitutions, partaking something of 
the coldness of our northern climate, it is extraordinary that any 
should have regarded this as a rare virtue, and praised the meek¬ 
ness of those who being themselves well-off, and having all their 
own desires contented, do not trouble themselves about the evils 


54 


SHADES AND ECHOES OF OLD LONDON. 


which they do not feel, and complain of the noisy restlessness of 
the beggars in the street, while they are sitting at their ease in 
their warm and comfortable rooms. Isaak Walton might enjoy his 
angling undisturbed, in spite of Star Chamber, ship-money, High 
Commission Court, or popish ceremonies: what was the sacrifice to 
him of letting the public grievances take their own way, and 
enjoying the freshness of a May morning in the meadows on the 
banks of the Lea ?” 

Between the writer of these eloquent words and Isaak Walton, 
as between the subject of this present paper and the last, as great a 
contrast exists as well can be. Baxter and Arnold were both 
earnest men—not only realizing as they did, both of them, the 
great spiritual truths of the Bible in relation to their own souls, 
but looking at them in their social aspects and bearings—and 
longing to see a perfected commonwealth, and a pure and compre¬ 
hensive church; and labouring to reduce their ideal visions of 
these things to facts, and that with the force of their whole 
nature, which, in each of them, was as a cloud, “ that movetli all 
together if it move at all.” Men of the calibre of Baxter and 
Arnold make our confessors and our reformers—the true heroes of 
our country and of Christendom—those who do the double work, 
each painful in its turn, of pulling down what is old and rotten, and 
building up what is new and strong. For the overturning of error, 
for the exposition and establishment of truth, of course we must 
not look to men of the Isaak Walton stamp. If England had had no 
other sons, we are afraid there would have been neither reform nor 
puritanism, and the letting things alone to go and angle, or even 
write quaint and beautiful books like Walton’s Angler, and 
Walton’s Lives, would have entailed an amount of mental slavery 
and moral impotence on the England of this hour, which would 
have been a curse to every one of us. We are not blaming Walton, 
for he was not cut out for a reformer; his quiet neglect of the 


ISAAK WALTON AND HIS FRIENDS. 


55 


stormy questions of the day was not a vice, neither was it a virtue 
—not censurable, neither was it admirable—but simply the following 
out of a natural tendency. But if any do set up Isaak as a model 
for all times and for all men, then we do demur most decidedly to 
their unwise judgment, and have no sympathy with their narrow 
admiration. 

Walton mentions Ashmole in the “ Complete Angler,” and takes 
us down to his house at Lambeth, near London, where he shows us 
the antiquary’s curiosities, abounding in specimens of natural 
history—to the heart’s delight of the author, who pores over them 
there with unutterable interest. He enumerates “ the hog-fish, the 
dog-fish, the dolphin, the coney-fish, the parrot-fish, the shark, the 
poison-fish, the sword-fish and other incredible fishalso the 
salamander and bird of paradise, snakes and solan geese, not 
forgetting the barnacles, which were said to grow on trees within 
shells like eggs, and then to drop off, and come out, soon to fledge 
and take their place with winged creatures—all of which is duly 
illustrated in a large wood-cut in Gerard’s Herbal. In such 
recreations we can see Walton and Ashmole seeking relief from 
the angry storms of politics and war. 

After leaving Chancery-lane, Walton married Anne Ken, half- 
sister of the nonjuring bishop of that name—a circumstance which 
links him with another of the celebrities of that age, though Ken 
did not perform the act which has made his memory so famous in 
English history till after Walton’s death. The resistance of James 
the Second’s commands by the seven bishops, who were imprisoned 
in the Tower, and afterwards so triumphantly acquitted, did not 
occur till 1687. 

Walton died in 1683. In his will he devised to his son-in-law, 
Doctor Hawkins, and his wife, his “ title and right of, or in part of, 
a house and shop in Paternoster-row,” which he held by lease from 
the Lord Bishop of London for about fifty years to come. This 


56 


SHADES AND ECHOES OF OLD LONDON. 


lease he took in 1662, and the house was called the Cross Keys. 
Though he resided about that time very much with his friend Dr. 
Morley, then recently made bishop of Winchester, whose residence 
was in Cheyne-walk, Chelsea, yet his name certainly becomes 
associated with the realm of the booksellers; and we think of 
Isaak in Paternoster-row; as, indeed, independently of any local 
connexion through residence or property, we could not help being 
reminded of him there, since his popular works bring before us the 
shadow of his presence, looking down upon us invitingly from 
the shelves of every bibliopolist’s shop. 

We are no lovers of angling; for, beside thinking there is 
cruelty in the sport, »we believe we can better employ our time 
even in the way of recreation—though this is a daring thing to say 
in the presence of Walton’s shade, whose portrait, lying before us 
as we write, seems to knit its brows while we pen the words. Yet, 
for all that, we love Walton’s “Angler.” There is a soft, gentle, 
benignant spirit pervading the whole, which irresistibly soothes us, 
when harassed with business and wearied with toil. We apprehend, 
that if we were to try to reduce to practice the fishing rules of the 
renowned author, we should, like Washington Irving, hook our¬ 
selves instead of the fish, and tangle our line in every tree, lose our 
bait, break our rod, and give up the attempt in despair, confessing 
that “ angling is something like poetry—a man must be born to it.” 
But reading his book,—not only under the green trees, but by the 
fire-side, and even in an omnibus going home from the city at 
eventide—has often refreshed us like the murmur of the brooks, and 
the fragrance of the cowslips, and the song of the early birds he so 
sweetly talks of. And if, perchance, we be careful and troubled 
about many things, and wonder how we are to obtain what is need¬ 
ful in this crowded world, so full of competition, it does us good to 
muse upon such a passage as this: “ When 1 would beget content 
and increase confidence in the power and wisdom and providence of 


ISAAK WALTON AND HIS FRIENDS. 


57 


Almighty God, I will walk the meadows by some gliding stream, 
and there contemplate the lilies that take no care, and those very 
many other little living creatures that are not only created, but fed 
(man knows not how) by the goodness of the God of nature, and 
therefore trust in him.” 

But much as we admire his “ Angler,” we admire, in some 
respects, his “ Lives ” still more; for though there are sentiments 
expressed and opinions indicated, with which we do not agree, we 
have brought before us portraitures of piety, especially in the 
characters of Hooker, Donne, and Herbert, which may well awaken 
our Christian sympathies, and stimulate us to holy imitation. But 
we are losing the shadow of the man among his books. We can 
trace him no further. In his last days he lived away from London 
with his son-in-law. He lies buried in Winchester cathedral. 

We come back to Temple Bar, and pass under its dark shadow 
at the midnight hour. The moon is up and little stars are opening 
their eyes and smiling over the city of sleepers. The streets are 
now still, very still, almost like the disentombed Pompeii. A few 
hours have made a mighty difference. The busy, noisy, bustling 
crowds have disappeared and melted away in silence. So, in a few 
years, writer and reader will disappear, and sleep the long sleep in 
the land of silence, where Walton, and Donne, and Ashmole, and 
all the rest of that generation, have been for nearly two centuries. 
We shall leave no shadow behind us, such as some of them have done. 
The most we can expect is that our children, perhaps our children’s 
children, will sometimes think of us, and perchance image to 
themselves their ancestor from an old portrait we may leave 
behind. Where then will the still living and conscious spirit 
be ? Will it be in that glorious world of which Walton used to 
think in the dead hour of night, as he walked in some favourite 
grove? “He that at midnight, when the very labourer sleeps 
securely, should hear, as I have very often, the clear airs, the sweet 


58 


SHADES AND ECHOES OF OLD LONDON. 


descants, the natural rising and falling, the doubling and redoubling 
of her voice, might well be lifted above earth, and say, Lord, what 
music hast thou provided for the saints in heaven, when thou 
affbrdest bad men such music on earth!” 


IV. ANDREW MARVELL AND LORD WM. RUSSELL. 

W hen travelling in Switzerland, and walking on the edge of some 
magnificent glacier—for example, creeping down the rocky ledges 
of the sides of Montanvert to the Mer de Glace—we have been 
struck, as everybody is, with the marvellous contrasts in adjacent 
objects; for while standing in this region of everlasting winter, 
touching, or almost touching, with his foot the thick-ribbed ice, the 
traveller can pluck a beautiful nosegay out of the rhododendrons 
which there grow in beds of rich pink bloom, in these borders of 
far-spread frost and snow. This frequently occurs to us now as an 
image of what we see, and of the associated thoughts which occupy 
our minds as we ramble about London. Poverty and wealth, 
vulgarity and refinement, ignorance and learning, wretchedness and 
joy, vice and virtue, crime and integrity, profaneness and religion, 
death and life, here come into close neighbourhood, and stand 
arrayed face to face in irreconcilable opposition, on the sides of our 
pathway. Illustrations of such a kind, belonging to the present, 
are yielded in abundance; in like manner, they come before us as 
we dwell upon the past. 

Do you not sometimes pass through the region around Drury - 
lane and Covent-garden ? It abounds in associations of profligacy. 
The haunts of the depraved lie there in nearest neighbourhood. 
Its history tells of licentious wits and abandoned rakes, from the 



ANDREW MARVELL AND LORD WM. RUSSELL. 


59 


days of the Stuarts downwards. Sad reflections come, not only as 
we speculate on the probable future of those who now in that 
vicinity pursue their career of sinful pleasure and degrading- 
revelry, but as we think of the present state, in the invisible 
regions, of many who long since figured here, and have left 
their names imprinted in the annals of this spot in infamous 
notoriety. 

Passing away from those miserable beings, we meet hard by, 
as an example of the indicated contrast, the shade of one' of the 
.most pure and incorrupt of English worthies. In Maiden-lane 
lived Andrew Marvell. Cast on times when bribery scarcely knew 
any bounds, when most men’s political consciences had their price, 
and could be bought by the government, if only gold enough were 
paid, this remarkable man was proof against all the tempting 
offers which were made to belie his convictions and betray his 
country. There he was, in that very Maiden-lane, in humble 
lodgings, just going to pick the remains of a bone of mutton, with¬ 
out a guinea in his pocket—in fact, on the point of sending to a 
friend to borrow one, when my lord treasurer Danby ascended the 
stairs with a message and bribe from Charles II. His lordship was 
Marvell’s schoolfellow, and thought that it only required a little 
tact to win over this poor but formidable statesman. He professed 
to wish a renewal of their old acquaintance, and on leaving the 
room slipped into his hand an order on the treasury for 1,00GZ. 
As the courtier was stepping into his chariot, Marvell called after 
him : “ My lord, I request another moment.” 

They went up again to the garret, and Jack, the servant boy, 
was called. 

“ Child, what had I for dinner yesterday ?” 

“ Don’t you remember, sir, you had the little shoulder of mutton 
that you ordered me to bring from a woman in the market ?” 

“ Very right, child. What have I for dinner to day ?” 


60 


SHADES AND ECHOES OF OLD LONDON. 


“ Don’t you know, sir, that you bid me lay by the blade-bone to 
broil ?” 

“ ’Tis so ; very right, child : go away. My lord ”—turning to 
the treasurer—“ do you hear that ? Andrew Marvell’s dinner is 
provided: there’s your piece of paper ; I want it not. I know the 
sort of kindness you intended. I live here to serve my constituents; 
the ministry may seek men for their purpose; I am not one.” 

A memorable picture that of sublime integrity, worthy to be 
often looked at and thought upon. “ A good conscience is a per¬ 
petual feast,” was one of the maxims we used to write in our copy- • 
books at school. It comes in here as an appropriate legend, to be 
inscribed under the historical painting which our fancy has already 
sketched and coloured. Marvell’s conscience supplied him daily 
with a banquet better than Lord Danby’s thousand pounds could 
ever have purchased. Enjoying that, he could put up with the 
broiled mutton-bone. Had he put away his conscience, he knew 
that the costly viands of Whitehall or St. James’s would have been 
to him as the apples of Sodom—mere bloom-coloured ashes. Let 
every man and boy who reads these lines, think of that fine scene 
in the Maiden-lane of the seventeenth century, the next time that 
any temptation whatever solicits him to sell his conscience. 

It would only be carrying out into further application this 
principle of contrast, to look at another shadow of a bygone 
age, whose haunt is hereabouts. Voltaire, after his release from 
the Bastile—where he had been imprisoned for libel—came 
to England and lodged in Maiden-lane, at a perruquier’s, whose 
house exhibited the sign of the white perruque ; and there, it is said, 
he was once borne home in triumph by an English mob, who, after 
obstructing him in the street, through curiosity awakened by his 
foreign and otherwise odd appearance, were thrown into raptures 
of admiration by an eloquent speech he made to them in English, 
on the steps of a doorway. 


ANDREW MARVELL AND LORD WM. RUSSELL. 


61 


But we must hasten on, in spite of the interruption of a motley 
group of associations which crowd upon us just now—as the people 
did about the Frenchman—for our purpose is not to tarry in 
Maiden-lane and talk of Voltaire, or even Marvell: we part from the 
latter, however, so soon, only because the scanty records of 
his life furnish us with no other incidents that can be con¬ 
nected here by local ties. We are on our way to Lincoln’s- 
inn-fields, and a melancholy shade there standing in the midst 
beckons us on. 

But before we look at him, let us for a moment survey the 
place and give a passing thought to other memories. Here we 
are in what used to be called in days of yore, when London 
was only creeping out a little way on this side Temple Bar, the 
Ticket-fields. Buildings were springing up hereabouts in the time 
of James I., and the monarch like his predecessors, frightened at 
the growth of the metropolis, tried to put a stop to the architects 
and bricklayers; but in defiance of royal proclamations, they 
would have their way. The square, we are told by some, was 
planned by Sir Inigo Jones, and was designed to agree in its 
dimensions with the base of one of the Egyptian pyramids—a 
circumstance enough to lead away our unruly thoughts to the 
banks of the Nile, there to muse under the shadow of those 
wondrous works of art, of which the device in planning the square 
gives so distinct and gigantic an idea. In the immediate neigh¬ 
bourhood, on the north side, between the fields and Holborn, there 
ran in ancient times a range of tenements, long since exchanged 
for stables, and once well known by the name of Whetstone’s 
Park, so called from the proprietor, a famous vestryman of St. 
Giles’s in the time of Charles I. and the Protectorate. It was 
among the most infamous of the infamous haunts whither the 
thieves and reprobates and vagabonds of the days of the Stuarts 
were wont to repair: so that, like spots already noticed in this 


62 


SHADES AND ECHOES OF OLD LONDON. 


paper, Lincoln’s-inn-fields is edged with associations dark and re¬ 
volting. But here—and it is to bring out the contrast on which 
we touched at the beginning, that we mentioned Whetstone Park— 
even here, with this scene of moral abandonment in the back¬ 
ground, stands out to view a character which will ever be 
regarded by his country as one of the noblest impersonations of 
moral heroism. 

To place before us this remarkable man, and the affecting 
circumstances under which his name will for ever remain asso¬ 
ciated with Lincoln’s-inn-fields, we will transport ourselves into 
the seventeenth century, and fancy ourselves standing at the 
end of Queen-street, on the morning of 21st July, 1683. 

The trees and shrubs remaining in the neighbourhood look 
all the fresher for the sharp showers which fell last night. Sum¬ 
mer skies and summer air, as if in mockery of woe, are looking 
down and breathing over the preparations for death, which busy 
workmen have been building up in the midst of the now in¬ 
creasingly mansion-girded square. From the windows of the sur¬ 
rounding houses multitudes are looking on the broad area, where a 
scaffold stands in death-like loneliness. A wide space is kept 
around, guarded by pikemen, with bright steel caps and polished 
breast and back pieces, and long slender weapons, forming rows of 
palisades about the ghastly instruments of execution which occupy 
the middle. Lincoln’s-inn supplies its full quota of spectators, and 
the wall which separates the lawyers’ courts from the public square is 
surmounted by not a few who are eagerly watching for the tragedy 
at hand. Lord Russell has been accused of treason, tried at the 
Old Bailey, and condemned to die, and is now on his way from 
Newgate hither along Holborn-hill. 

Unhappy but noble-minded Russell! He has long been a 
patriot; a true and earnest one, if not the wisest and most 
eloquent. Things have long been going on badly in the high 


ANDREW MARVELL AND LORD WM. RUSSELL. 


63 


places of old England. With a heartless monarch, and a licentious 
court, and a corrupt ministry, and a free constitution despised and 
trampled on, what else could be expected ? To add to other 
troubles, the dark prospect of a popish successor to the throne, on 
the death of Charles, has tilled all sincere Protestants with dismay 
—Russell among the rest. So he has been thinking much about 
what could be done for the rescue of English liberty from the 
perils which threatened it. With zeal outstripping discretion, he 
has suffered himself to listen to schemes for the overthrow of 
tyranny by force, as in the civil wars; but that he ever pledged 
himself to the execution of such schemes, much less that he ever en¬ 
tertained any purpose of compassing the death of the king, no proof 
whatever can be offered. A Rye-house plot indeed has been 
much talked of; men have been charged with meeting there to 
attack the king on his way to Newmarket; but it is certain that 
Russell, though accused of connexion with it, is perfectly innocent 
of any such design, and has not had the least to do with the dark 
conspirators. On the trial, no evidence at all sufficient to convict 
the patriot was adduced; a great deal of it being vaguely given, 
and much consisting of mere hearsay. But the forms only, 
without the spirit, of English justice presided on the bench and 
guided the proceedings of the court; so that the mind of the 
monarch and his ministers being known to desire it, the crimina¬ 
tion of the accused was beforehand certain, however innocent the 
man might be. Accordingly, Russell, feared by Charles, hated by 
James, and maligned by courtiers who could not understand his 
virtuous patriotism, has been found guilty of treason, and sentenced 
to perish on the block. 

His condemnation occurred several days ago, since which period 
his friends have been using every means to save his life. Large 
sums of money have been offered, and other projects devised for 
the purpose. Even the idea of rescuing him by force has been 


64 


SHADES AND ECHOES OF OLD LONDON. 


entertained. One friend, Lord Cavendish, has offered to assist his 
escape, by taking his place in prison, and exchanging with him his 
clothes. But the only thing the noble sufferer himself has done, 
has been to write to the king and the duke of York, and to offer to 
live beyond the seas in any place which the royal pleasure might 
appoint, pledging himself also no more to take part in English 
politics. All, however, has been in vain; and, as an aggravation of 
his punishment, it has been proposed by the duke that Russell 
should die in Southampton-square, at the door of his own residence— 
a proposition which the king has had humanity or prudence enough 
to reject. While in prison, most of his time has been spent in 
retirement and religious meditation. He received the death- 
warrant with calmness, and is anticipating his departure with 
Christian hope. Six or seven times he has been in his chamber on 
this the last morning of his life, engaged in prayer; and on parting 
with Lord Cavendish, he earnestly has urged on him the importance 
of personal piety. Winding up his watch, he observes he has 
done with time, and is going to eternity. Asking what he should 
give the executioner, and being told ten guineas, he says with a 
smile, “ A pretty thing to give a fee to have my head cut off.” 

But the coach, with all the array of judicial death, is now turning 
round the corner to Little Queen-street, and he remarks:—“ I 
have often turned to the other hand with great comfort, but now I 
turn to this with greater.” A tear falls from his eye as he speaks; 
and while some among the crowd weep and others insult, though 
touched with tenderness at the commiseration of his friends, he 
shows no resentment at the conduct of his enemies. He is singing 
psalms, saying he hopes to sing better soon. He looks upon the 
dense multitude, observing he expects to meet a nobler assembly 
ere long. And now the coach enters the fields, while the con¬ 
course moving their heads towards the spot, like tree-tops waving 
under the winds, watch, with eager eyes, the slowly advancing 


ANDREW MARVELL AND LORD WM. RUSSELL. 


65 


procession. As the broad space, so familiar to him in his young 
days, opens before him, and houses are seen associated with the 
recollection of early gaieties, not unpolluted with the vicious habits 
of the age, he sorrowfully exclaims :—“ This has been to me a place 
of sinning, and God now makes it the place of my punishment.” 
With him in the coach are Drs. Tillotson and Burnet, his faithful 
attendants and spiritual advisers in his gloomy cell at Newgate. 
And now the sable train stops. The condemned nobleman, with 
his clerical friends and the sheriffs and other officers, stand at the 
scaffold’s foot. They slowly ascend the steps, and when all are 
assembled on the fatal eminence, the devoted one calmly paces 
round the black-covered platform, looking upon the crowd. He 
then puts into the hands of the sheriffs a long paper, verbally 
declaring at the same time, that it has always been far from his 
design to plot against the king’s life or government. He prays 
that God would preserve both, and the Protestant religion, and 
wishes all Protestants may love one another, and not make way 
for popery by their animosities. In the paper delivered, he 
declares that he is a member of the church of England—that 
he wishes all would unite against the common enemy—that 
churchmen would be less severe, and dissenters less scrupulous— 
that he has been ready at all times to venture his own life for his 
country and his religion, but has never been moved “ to anything 
with relation to the king’s life ”—that he was earnest in the 
matter of the exclusion, as the best way, in his opinion, to secure 
both the king and the Protestant religion—that he forgives his 
enemies, though he thinks his sentence hard—and that killing by 
forms of law is the worst kind of murder. 

The last moment approaches. That form, now vigorous and 
healthy, is in a few more instants to lie still and pale in yon black 
coffin. The soul, now looking through those eyes uplifted to 
heaven in thought, is, when the beating pulse has throbbed a little 

D 


66 


SHADES AND ECHOES OF OLD LONDON. 


more, to pierce beyond the shades which hide the eternal 
future, and to be with God. Reverently he kneels down to pray. 
Many hearts are praying fervently with his. There is a pause. 
Dr. Tillotson now engages in intercession for his dying friend. 
The sufferer unfastens the upper part of his dress, takes off his 
outer garment, lays bare his neck, and then places it on the block 
without change of countenance. He lifts up his hands, but there 
is no trembling. The executioner touches him with the axe to 
take sure aim, but he does not shrink. Faces, like the leaves of 
forest trees, are all around, and are looking on with trembling 
emotion. His friends at this moment turn aside their eyes. We 
do so.—It is all over. The headsman has done his duty with two 
strokes, and Russell’s soul is gone where vindictive passion can never 
follow. 

Thus he fell; and we feel with Charles James Fox, that his 
name will be for ever dear to every Englishman. When his 
memory shall cease to be an object of respect and veneration, “ it 
requires no spirit of prophecy to foretell that English liberty will be 
fast approaching to its final consummation.” His deportment was 
what might be expected from one who knew he was suffering, not 
for his crimes, but his virtues. He was connected with the 
world by private and domestic ties; and “ the story of the last days 
of this excellent man’s life fills the mind with such a mixture of 
tenderness and admiration, that I know not any scene in history 
that more powerfully excites our sympathy, or goes more directly 
to the heart.” 

How grateful it is, after picturing the sad scene which Lincoln* s- 
inn-fields exhibited in 1683, to look upon the quiet, pleasant, open 
square now, with its garden of trees and shrubs and flowers covering 
the space set apart for the tragedy of Lord Russell’s execution. As 
we rejoice in our present freedom, we feel as if the drops of the 
patriot’s blood had been as precious seeds from which have grown 


ANDREW MARVELL AND LORD WM. RUSSELL. 


67 


up those liberties that now “ blossom as the rose.” Through God’s 
blessing, the day when despotism prompted men to perilous enter¬ 
prises and then crushed them for longing after liberty, is gone by, 
we trust for ever. 

Bloomsbury-square is not very far from Lincoln’s-inn-fields. South¬ 
ampton House occupied the whole north side of it. “ It was a large 
building,” says Strype, “ with a spacious court before it, and a 
curious garden behind, which lieth open to the fields, enjoying a 
wholesome and pleasant air.” It was erected for Thomas Wriothesley, 
Earl of Southampton, whose only daughter and heir, Lord Eussell 
married. This was the never-to-be-forgotten Lady Eachel, with 
whom he lived in that very house, in the enjoyment of a domestic 
lot which rarely falls to the share of mortals. With the history 
just noticed fresh in our memory, we cannot help thinking of her 
devotion and heroism—of her sitting in the Old Bailey court under 
the bar where her noble husband stood a prisoner, taking notes 
and assisting in his defence—of her casting herself, bathed in tears, 
at the feet of Charles, supplicating the life of her beloved lord—of 
her calm converse with him in prison when his fate was fixed—and 
of the scene of the last night, so touchingly described in Burnet’s 
journal. “At ten o’clock my lady left him. He kissed her four or 
five times, and she so kept her sorrows to herself, that she gave 
him no disturbance by their parting. After she was gone, he 
said: ‘Now the bitterness of death is past,’ and ran out a long- 
discourse concerning her — how great a blessing she had been 
to him, and said what a misery it would have been to him, if she 
had not that magnanimity of spirit joined to her tenderness as 
never to have desired him to do a base thing for the saving of his 
life.” 

Walking through Bloomsbury-square, with the associations just 
indicated in our minds, we cannot but see the shade of the calm, 
heroic, gentle, saintly wife, and now widow, of the martyred lord. 


(JS SHADES AND ECHOES OF OLD LONDON. 

She passes by in her mourning weeds, her amiable countenance 
beclouded only with sorrow ; or we see her sitting in her little 
closet, at her desk, in the mansion of her father, on the anniversary 
of the sad day in July. We see her writing:—“1 know I have 
deserved my punishment, and will be silent under it; but yet 
secretly my heart mourns and cannot be comforted, because I have 
not the dear companion and sharer of all my joys and sorrows. I 
want him to talk with, to walk with, to eat and sleep with: all 
these things are irksome to me now; all company and meals I 
could avoid if it might be. Yet all this is, that I enjoy not the 
world in my own way, and this same hinders my comfort. When 
I see my children before me, I remember the pleasure he took in 
them : this makes my heart shrink.” Again she says :—“ I hope 
this has been a sorrow I shall profit by. I shall, if God will 
strengthen my faith, resolve to return him a constant praise, and 
make this the season to chase all secret murmurs from grieving my 
soul for what is past, letting it rejoice in what it should rejoice, his 
favour to me in the blessings I have left, which many of my 
betters want, and yet have lost their chiefest friends also.” Once 
more:—“God knows my eyes are ever ready to pour out marks of 
a sorrowful heart which I shall carry to the grave, that quiet bed 
of rest. My friendships have made all the joys and troubles of my 
life ; and yet who would live and not love? Those who have tried 
the insipidness of it, would, I believe, never choose it. Mr. Waller 
says ■:— 

* What know we of the blest above, 

But that they sing, and that they love V 

and it is enough ; for if there is so charming a delight in the love 
and suitableness in humours to creatures, what must it be to the 
clarified spirits to love in the presence of God ?” 

Here she died in 1723, and here we must leave Lord William 
and the Lady Eachel, with the thought, that long since they 


MARGARET GODOLPHIN. 


60 


have been reunited in that happy world reserved for all who, 
regenerated by the Holy Spirit, have been reconciled to God by 
living faith in the atonement of his Son. Their remains slumber 
in the beautiful old church of Chenies, Buckinghamshire, the 
mausoleum of the Bedford family. We shall never forget 
visiting that spot, one bright summer’s day, and gazing on the 
tomb of that honoured pair, whose love and sorrow have enshrined 
their memory in sympathizing hearts, while their heroism has 
exalted them to a bright place in England’s history. And well, 
too, do we remember the broken lily sculptured in pure white 
marble over the grave of the first wife of him who now so honour¬ 
ably bears the name of Russell. A touching memento that of life’s 
crushed joys, and a monitory symbol to every reader of the frailty 
of all earthly good. 


V. MARGARET GODOLPHIN. 

The Blagges—an ancient Suffolk family—had attained to high 
consideration as early as the reign of Henry vm. One who bore 
the name, with the title of Sir George, was, before his knighthood, 
which was not conferred till the reign of Edward vi., well known 
at court, and enjoyed the friendship of the unfortunate Surrey and 
Sir Thomas Wyatt. Suspected as “ a favourer of the gospel ”—a 
title given to such as were on the side of the Reformation in those 
times of conflict— he was arrested by the leaders of the popish 
party and narrowly escaped the stake through the interposition of 
the capricious monarch. Henry was in the habit of addressing 
those he liked by some humorous designation, often intensely 



70 


SHADES AND ECHOES OF OLD LONDON. 


vulgar. Saluting George Blagge, after he had just missed being 
burnt, with the odd soubriquet, “ Ah, my pig ,"—the courtier replied, 
“ If your majesty had not been better to me than your bishops were, 
your pig had been roasted ere this time.” 

One of the descendants of Sir George was Colonel Thomas 
Blagge, of Horningsheath, in Suffolk, groom of the bedchamber to 
Charles I., and governor of Wallingford. He married Mary North, 
daughter of Sir Robert North, of Mildenhall, in the same county. 
Report speaks of the husband as of “ extraordinary wit and signal 
loyalty ?” and of the wife, as “ so eminent in all the virtues and 
perfections of her sex, that it were hard to say whether were 
superior, her beauty, wit, or poetry.” Stormy were the times, and 
sadly interrupted must have been the domestic joys of this worthy 
couple; especially after the death of their royal master and the 
establishment of the Commonwealth, when to them, as royalists, 
their path must have been thorny indeed, and the sky of the future 
all dark. 

Three years after the execution of Charles, Mary Blagge, on 
the 2nd of August, folded in her arms a babe—the fruit of her 
sorrow, the flower of her hope. She and the colonel gave the girl 
the name of Margaret, and brought her up with care. “ Her 
extraordinary discernment soon advanced to a great and early 
sense of religion,” which proved her safeguard against the dangers to 
which she was early exposed; for while yet a child, before her seventh 
year, she was taken, by the old Duchess of Richmond, into France, 
and consigned to the care of the Countess of Guildford, a bigoted 
papist, who tried to persuade the child to go to mass; but she, then 
so intelligent and religiously disposed, refused to comply, though 
rudely treated and menaced by the countess, as Margaret in after 
life used to relate to her friends, with many “ pretty circumstances.” 
But she did not stay long in France. On her return to England 
she lived with her much loved mother. In 1665 came the raging 


MARGARET GODOLPHIN. 


71 


pestilence, like death on the pale horse, striking terror into the 
hearts of the Londoners; when Mrs. Blagge, in common with 
thousands more, hastened from the infected city to the fresh air 
and the sequestered scenes of the country. 

The depression of the royalists had at this time come to an end ; 
Charles had been restored, and Whitehall was once again a scene 
of cavalier pomp and courtly revelries. As a mark of favour to a 
family that had suffered in the civil wars, the Duchess of York 
offered to Mrs. Blagge to take Margaret, now only twelve years 
old, to place her at court, and make her one of her maids of 
honour. The proposal, so flattering in a worldly point of view, 
was accepted, and the young lady soon found herself in a “ sur¬ 
prising change of air and a perilous climate.” 

“ A perilous climate ’’ indeed, for the atmosphere was loaded 
with the pestilence of vice. It would pollute our pages to enter 
into the details of profligacy and intrigue which filled, to overflow¬ 
ing, the court of the second Charles. Taste, elegance, and wit 
might throw a veil of fascination over the habits indulged, and 
screen from general observation a portion of their deformity ; but 
the intrinsic evil of licentiousness will and must remain, however 
it may wear a fashionable disguise. “ The manners of Chesterfield ” 
may be united with “ the morals of Rochefoucaultbut what- 

O' 

ever some may have smartly said to the contrary, vice can lose 
nothing of its guilt, though it should part with all its grossness. 
Margaret, after the pure example and moral instructions of her 
mother, was shocked at what she saw and heard at court; and 
the marvel is how such a mother could have trusted one 
she so much loved in such a furnace of temptation. But there 
was that in the young girl’s heart which kept her amidst the 
fires. Not long had Margaret Blagge been a maid of honour, 
when she lost both her mother and her mistress. Among her 
papers she thus records the bereaving stroke, exhibiting, in in- 


72 


SHADES AND ECHOES OF OLD LONDON. 


structive contrast, the different manner in which it fell on the 
sufferers. 

“ My mother dead; at first surprised and very unwilling; she 
was afterwards resigned; prayed much, had holy things read to 
her, delighted in heavenly discourse, desired to be dissolved and 
be with Christ, ended her life cheerfully and without pain, 

left her family in order, and was much lamented.”—“The D- 

dead; a princess honoured in power, had much wit, much money, 
much esteem ;—none remembered her after one week, none sorry 
for her, she was tost and flung about, and every one did what 
they would with that stately carcase. What is this world, what 
is greatness, what to be esteemed or thought a wit ? We shall all 
be stripped without sense or remembrance. But God, if we serve 
him in our health, will give us patience in our sickness.” Perhaps 
this twofold stroke of death tended to increase that habitual 
seriousness which so remarkably distinguished Margaret Blagge, 
for, as she often said, she loved to be in the house of mourning. 

“ She had not been above two years at court, before her virtue, 
beauty, and wit made her to be looked upon as a little miracle ; 
and, indeed, there were some addresses made to her of the greatest 
persons—not from the attractions of affected charms, for she was 
ever, at that sprightful and free age, severely careful how she 
might give the least liberty, which the gallants there do usually 
assume, of talking with less reserve-; nor did this eclipse her 
pretty humour, which was cheerful and easy amongst those she 
thought worthy her conversation.” Having been promoted to 
the station of a maid of honour to the queen, the moral perils of 
her position became still more imminent, but her watchfulness 
was proportionably great. “ Be sure never to talk to the king,” 
she says in her diary; “when they speak filthily, though I be 
laughed at, look grave, remembering that of Micah, there will 
come a time when the Lord will bind up his jewels. Before I 



MARGARET G0D0LPI1IN. 


73 


speak, Lord, assist me; when I pray, Lord, hear me; when I am 
praised, God humble me; may everything I see instruct me; 
Lord, cleanse my hands, let my feet tread thy paths.” 

Providence had in reserve for Margaret two friends, with whom 
the rest of her history is bound up ; and the attachment she 
felt for them was, no doubt, among the subsidiary means employed 
by the Divine keeper of that young soul for the strengthening of 
her virtue, the growth of her piety, and the establishment of her 
peace. 

The first of these friends—one who became to her a kind of 
moral and spiritual Mentor—was the well-known John Evelyn, of 
Wotton, to whose pleasant and easy pen we are indebted for what 
we know of her history and character. Minding his books and his 
garden—a circle, he used to say, “ big enough for him ”—he 
never sought acquaintanceships at court; and when he heard some 
distinguished persons speaking of Margaret Blagge, he “fancied 
her some airy thing that had more wit than discretion.” But 
making a visit to Whitehall with Mrs. Evelyn, he fell in with the 
youthful maid of honour, and one day dined in her apartments, 
when he “ admired her temperance, and took especial notice that 
however wide or indifferent the subject of their discourse was 
amongst the rest, she would always divert it to some religious con¬ 
clusion, and so temper and season her replies, as showed a gracious 
heart, and that she had a mind wholly taken up with heavenly 
thoughts.” A sincere friendship arose between the Whitehall 
lady and the Wotton sage, which was ratified by a quaint so¬ 
lemnity, illustrative of the character of the parties far more than 
the fashion of the times. After a formal solicitation that he would 
look upon her thenceforth as his child, she took a sheet oi paper, 
upon which Evelyn had been carelessly sketching something in 
the shape of an altar, and wrote these words :—“ Be this a symbol 
of inviolable friendship: Margaret Blagge, 16th October, 1672 

D 2 


74 


SHADES AND ECHOES OF OLD LONDON. 


and underneath, “ for my brother E-There was something 

of romance in the daughter-like attachment which this girl of 
twenty formed for the amiable Evelyn ; but it was indulged for 
the guidance of her affairs, the increase of her wisdom, and the 
ripening of her piety. “ The most consummate friendships,” said 
he, his heart glowing while he wrote, “ are the products of 
religion and the love of God and such, beyond doubt, was 
the origin of the mutual affection between him and Margaret 
Godolphin. 

The quick-sighted Evelyn soon discovered that there was 
another who held a different f)lace in her heart from that which 
he had been chosen to occupy; so, after he had rallied her on the 
subject, Margaret one day sat down in her chamber at Whitehall, 
and wrote a confidential epistle, communicating to him tidings of 
the attachment she had formed for one to whom she was sub¬ 
sequently united. That his tastes were in unison with her own 
may be gathered from her own account:—“At first we thought 
of living always together, and that we should be happy. But 
at last, he was sent abroad by his Majesty and fell sick, which 
gave me great trouble. I allowed more time for prayer than 
before I had ever done, and, I thank God, found infinite plea¬ 
sure in it, and I thought less of foolish things that used to 
take up my time. Being thus changed myself, and liking it so 
well, I earnestly begged of God that he would impart the same 
satisfaction to him I loved. ’ Tis done, my friend, ’ tis done; and 
from my soul I am thankful; and though I believe he loves me 
passionately, yet I am not where I ivas ; my place is filled up with 
Him who is all in all.” She then goes on to say that they were 
determined not to precipitate their marriage ; indeed she indicates 
some inclination to a perpetual single fife, from a mistaken notion 
that thereby she could more effectually serve God than in a 
married condition. 



MARGARET G0D0LPH1N. 


75 


Never at home amidst the gaieties of Whitehall, to say nothing 
of the immorality which there prevailed, Margaret felt, after seven 
years’ continuance in the place, that she could no longer endure to 
remain amidst its scenes, and therefore earnestly sought, and at 
length with difficulty obtained, permission from their Majesties to 
retire from court. It was on a Sunday night, Evelyn tells us, after 
most of the company were departed, that he waited on her down 
to her chamber, where she was no sooner entered, but, falling on 
her knees, she blessed God as for a signal deliverance; “ she 
was come,” she said, “out of Egypt, and was now in the way to 
the land of promise.” Tears trickled down her cheeks, “ like the 
dew of flowers, making a lovely grief,” as she parted with one of 
the court ladies who had a spirit kindred to her own; but the 
feelings which predominated in her bosom were more like those of 
one fleeing from the city of destruction. 

Her new place of abode was Berkeley House, a mansion which 
stood on the site of the present town residence of the Duke of 
Devonshire in Piccadilly. There she found a home with Lady 
Berkeley, and a pleasant chamber with a library, and quietude 
and retirement, and, what she specially sought, time for meditation 
and prayer. She was, however, exposed to occasional interruptions 
from the visits of distinguished personages, and this, owing to her 
increased love of seclusion, induced her to contemplate a removal 
into the country. The desire of celibacy at this time returned 
with increased force; and it is plain, from her whole story, that 
there was a strong infusion of asceticism in her piety; an ele¬ 
ment alien from the religion of Christ, which, while it enjoins 
self-denial, cherishes the social instincts and domestic charities of 
our nature, purifying and crowning them with divine benedictions. 
Evelyn had, in this respect, more sober and scriptural notions of 
Christianity ; and he availed himself of his influence over his young 
friend, to persuade her to renounce those erroneous views of a 


76 


SHADES AND ECHOES OF OLD LONDON. 


spiritual life into which she had been betrayed. And he succeeded. 
She indeed withdrew herself from the. amusements of the world of 
fashion; she burst through the entanglements which continued to 
surround her even after she ceased to be a maid of honour; she 
was prepared to give up all for Christ: but she was brought to see 
that union with a person whose religious sentiments and feelings 
were in harmony with her own, would tend rather to promote 
than to retard the progress of piety. Accordingly, she was 
married privately in the Temple church, on the 16th of May; but 
in a letter written shortly after, she showed what was still the 
main bent and purpose of her mind. “ I have this day,” she says 
to Evelyn, “ thought your thoughts, wished I dare say your wishes, 
which were that I might every day sit looser and looser to the 
things of this world; discerning, as every day I do, the folly and 
vanity of it; how short all its pleasures, how trifling all its recrea¬ 
tions, how false most of its friendships, how transitory every thing 
in it; and on the contrarv, how sweet the service of God, how 
delightful the meditating on his word, how pleasant the conver¬ 
sation of the faithful, and, above all, how charming prayer, how 
glorious our hopes, how gracious our God is to all his children, 
how gentle his corrections, and how frequently, by the in¬ 
vitations of his Spirit, he calls us from our low designs to 
those great and noble ones of serving him and attaining eternal 
happiness.” 

The person to whom she was married, and to 'whom 
she had been attached before she became acquainted with 
Evelyn, was Sidney Godolphin, before his death created Earl of 
Godolphin. 

Berkeley-house was the first scene of her wedded life. Sweetly 
“ she lived in retirement all the winter,” till the return of Lord 
Berkeley from Paris obliged her to remove, when she repaired to 
“ a pretty habitation which had been built and accommodated for 


MARGARET GODOLPHIN. 


77 


her in Scotland-yard.” A burst of grateful joy went up to her 
heavenly Father when she found herself settled in her new abode. 
“ When I this day consider my happiness, in having so perfect 
health of body, cheerfulness of mind, no disturbance from without 
nor grief within, my time my own, my house quiet, sweet, and 
pretty, all manner of conveniences for serving God in public and 
private; how happy in my friends, husband, relations, servants, 
credit, and none to wait or attend on but my dear and beloved 
God, from whom I receive all this; what a melting joy ran through 
me at the thoughts of all these mercies, and how did I think my¬ 
self obliged to go to the foot of my Redeemer, and acknowledge my 
own umvorthiness of his favour.” 

Margaret Godolphin was exemplary as a wife, even as Margaret 
Blagge had been exemplary in her unmarried estate. Where the 
religion of Christ dwells in the heart, its developments are 
beautifully adapted to the circumstances of individual life and the 
calls of relative duty ; like some luxuriant plant which winds, curls, 
and throws out its tendrils and leaves, in directions indicated by the 
position in which it is placed. With ease she instructed her 
servants, sedulously maintaining the forms of domestic religion, and 
breathing, in her whole intercourse with them, its kind, considerate 
and benignant spirit; while, with the Christian dignity and con¬ 
descension of the mistress, were blended, in all her conduct towards 
him she most loved on earth, the devotion, tenderness, and 
sympathy of the wife. She had learned the beautiful lesson, that 
pure and undefiled religion (that is, religion in its outward service, 
its external form) “ before God and the Father is this, To visit the 
fatherless and widows in their affliction, and to keep himself un¬ 
spotted from the world.” In addition to the practical expression 
of religion in indifference to the world, she cultivated its practical 
expression in activities for the good of others ; passing from the 
kingly palace, or the mansions of the noble, to the cottages of the 


78 


SHADES AND ECHOES OF OLD LONDON. 


humble and the hovels of the indigent; and visiting and re¬ 
leasing prisoners, of whom Evelyn says he could produce “ a list 
of above thirty, restrained for debts in several prisons, which she 
paid and compounded for at once.” Nor did she omit alms -deeds, 
while abounding in alms -gifts. She was like Dorcas, who was 
full of good works; like Priscilla, who instructed many more 
perfectly in the ways of God; like Mary, who bestowed much 
labour. She was a servant of the church, a succourer of the saints, 
a helper in Christ Jesus, and ready to lay down her life for the 
gospel. 

One joy was wanting to crown her wedded bliss, and anxiously 
she longed for it; not with the impatience, but almost with the 
intensity of Bachel. “ She took home to her a poor orphan 
girl, whom she tended, instructed, and cherished with the 
tenderness of a natural mother.” Providence at length crowned 
her hopes. She anticipated the event with confidence in the 
Divine power and mercy, but withal with a dash of melan¬ 
choly and a foreboding that 44 she should not outlive the 
happiness she had so long wished for.” A son was bom on 
Tuesday, the 3rd of September, 1678. All went on well for a few 
days. On the following Saturday, Evelyn received from Mr. 
Godolphin an alarming note. Dangerous symptoms appeared. 
All that medical skill could accomplish in those days, and under 
her circumstances, was done; but in vain. She lingered till 
Monday, September 9th, when she departed, in the 25th year of 
her age. She lies buried in Breage church, Cornwall, where her 
tomb reminds one of the pillar of Rachels grave. 

Such is the simple story of Margaret Godolphin, as told by John 
Evelyn. It is a quaint but beautiful account of practical piety, 
with some traits indicating a want of fuller light and richer 
knowledge. We must never forget that genuine piety springs 
from a simple reliance upon the Son of God, and from the in- 


JOSEPH ADDISON. 


79 


dwelling of the Spirit of grace, the fountain of truth, holiness, 
and love. While noticing, in the object of our sketch, imper¬ 
fections arising from the want of clearer views on some points, 
brightly does the star of this godly woman gleam amid the dark¬ 
ness that envelops the court of one of England’s most degraded 
monarchs. 


VI. JOSEPH ADDISON. 

Few places are so suggestive as public schools. What thick¬ 
coming fancies we have, when perchance only for two minutes we 
pause by the iron railings in front of Christ’s Hospital, Newgate- 
street, to look at the boys in yellow and blue, and listen to their 
light-hearted shouts—shouts which cruelly stab some hearts with 
recollections of like gladness now for ever gone ! We speculate 
upon what those merry roisterers may become in future days— 
what positions they may fill in the state—what eminence may 
await that timid-looking little fellow who leans so thoughtfully 
against the corner column of the arcade—and what a downward 
destiny may come to that beautiful lad, with ruddy cheeks and 
golden locks, the life of yonder group, who evidently regard him 
as their Magnus Apollo. And those two youths, with their arms 
fondly thrown over each other’s shoulders talking so very earnestly 
—how divergent may be their paths, or how symbolical of future 
friendship may be their present attitude ! Then, with fancies 
about the future, there come remembrances of the past, as we walk 
into the old school room, with its desks so profusely covered 
with penknife carvings, and its walls so closely studded with 
inscriptions, great and small. We decipher here and there, amidst 



80 


SHADES AND ECHOES OF OLD LONDON. 


gigantic capitals which tell of those forgotten, tiny letters forming 
the names of those who will never be forgotten. 

We have mentioned Christ’s Hospital, but our purpose is to take 
the reader to another old school in London, not far distant—that 
which belongs to the Charter-house; and if it were not that we 
are now in search of a celebrity belonging to the eighteenth century, 
we might tarry to talk of a boy educated there who from his 
sedate and thoughtful ways gained the soubriquet of Old Phlos— 
the same who recently won for himself immortal renown in the 
Indian war, whose name will be remembered by a distant posterity 
as the great Sir Henry Havelock. 

But we mean to go back more than a century and a half, that we 
may meet with a boy who studied then, and, as we look on the 
lad, to connect with it the thought of the man he was to be. 
Indeed, several shades among the most illustrious of which our 
country boasts, meet us there in boyish stature. There is Isaac 
Barrow, noted among his playmates as a famous pugilist, but in 
fact an embryo mathematician and divine. And there is one whose 
pastime is not so unapt a type of the future; three times every 
morning, most methodically, by his father’s command, does he run 
round the green : it is Master John Wesley, the son of the Epworth 
rector. Between the periods in which Barrow fought and Wesley 
ran, Master J osepli Addison and Master Biehard Steele were then 
at school; and we can fancy these two early friends walking about, 
like the blue-coat boys just sketched, little dreaming of the sub¬ 
sequent union of their names in connection with the history of 
periodical literature and elegant letters. It is the shade of Joseph 
Addison that we come to visit. His future career, in connexion 
with his genial boyhood, we wish to trace ; and from the precincts 
of the Charter-house, we propose to start on a short tour to some 
of his London haunts, where again we shall find him in company 
with Biehard Steele, 


JOSEPH ADDISON. 


81 


But before we go, one word about the Charter-house. It was 
originally a monastic foundation. A wealthy citizen richly endowed 
it at the end of the sixteenth century, both as an hospital and a 
school; and once a year his name is celebrated by the pensioners, 
who sing the following ditty :— 

“ Then blessed be the memory 
Of good old Thomas Sutton, 

Who gave us lodging, learning, 

And he gave us beef and mutton/’ 

Thomas Sutton, by the way, is most worthy of being had in 
remembrance and imitation by the wealthy of this world, if we are 
to believe what Fuller tells us of his retiring into his garden, and 
being overheard in prayer, exclaiming—“ Lord, thou hast given 
me a large and liberal estate : give me also a heart to make use 
thereof. ” Under a sense of responsibility to the Giver of all good, 
Sutton has left an enduring monument of his liberal care for his 
fellow-creatures in the two extremes of age. Old men, after the 
rough storms of life, here put into harbour awhile, before stepping 
on the infinite and eternal shore; and boys, ere they battle with 
the tempest, find in the Charter-house a dockyard where the 
vessel is prepared for its coming voyages. Snug are the dormitories, 
spacious the halls, and liberal the allowance made to the former, while 
the latter are provided with a good education and every reasonable 
comfort. The architecture is of different kinds, exhibiting a series 
of examples extending through the sixteenth and part of the 
seventeenth century; and as we pass round the quadrangle and 
along the corridor, it is easy to fancy ourselves transferred to the 
reign of James I. or Henry vm. It is one of those recesses in 
the heart of old London, into which the contemplative may 
dive, as into the glades of a forest, and, forgetting the crowds 
and conflicts of passing times, indulge in a quietude which he 


82 


SHADES AND ECHOES OF OLD LONDON. 


may improve for his intellectual pleasure and his spiritual 
advantage. 

But to return to Joseph Addison, who used to sleep in one of 
those rooms, and to say his lessons in the old school—we catch the 
next glimpse of him down Fulham way. Faulkner, the historian 
of Fulham, who wrote in 1811, describes at the eastern extremity 
of the parish, situated by a small creek running to the Thames, a 
building called Sandford Manor-house, formerly of some note from 
having been the residence of the notorious Nell Gwynn. “ The 
mansion is of venerable appearance ; and immediately in front are 
four walnut-trees, affording an agreeable shade, that are said to 
have been planted by royal hands; and the fruit is esteemed of a 
peculiarly fine quality.” According to the authority just quoted, 
Addison was residing in this house in the year 1708. He had, in 
1693, left Oxford, whither he went from the Charter-house; he 
had, from 1699 to 1702, pursued his travels on the Continent, ot 
which his “ Dialogue on Medals ” and his “ Cato ” are mementoes; 
he had passed two years in retirement, and then devoted himself 
to political business; and at the time to which we now refer, had 
reached the office of under-secretary of state. Two letters, stated 
by Mr. Faulkner to have been written from Sandford Manor-house 
are interesting memorials of the state of the neighbourhood round 
about Fulham then, and of the intense relish for rural scenes and 
pleasures, and the minute observation of natural objects which 
always distinguished the author of the “Spectator.” The letters 
are addressed to the young Earl of Warwick, to whom he subse¬ 
quently became stepfather. He has been represented as the 
youthful nobleman’s tutor, but it would appear that he never 
sustained such a relation. In the first letter, he gives a particular 
account of a curious bird’s-nest found near the house, about which 
ais neighbours were divided in opinion, some taking it for a nest 
of skylarks, some of canary birds, but he judging the inmates to 


JOSEPH ADDISON. 


83 


N 


be tomtits. In the second letter he says:—“ I can’t forbear 
being troublesome to your lordship while I am in your neighbour¬ 
hood. The business of this is to invite you to a concert of music 
which I have found on a tree in a neighbouring wood. It begins 
precisely at six in the evening, and consists of a blackbird, a thrush, 
a robin redbreast, and a bullfinch. There is a lark that by way of 
overture sings and mounts till she is almost out of hearing, and 
afterwards falls down leisurely, and drops to the ground, as soon 
as she has ended her song. The whole is concluded by a nightin¬ 
gale, that has a much better voice than Mrs. Tofts, and something 
of Italian manners in its diversions. If your lordship will honour 
me with your company, I will promise to entertain you with much 
better music and more agreeable scenes than you ever met with 
at the opera, and will conclude with a charming description of a 
nightingale out of our friend Virgil: 

* So close in poplar shades her children gone, 

The mother nightingale laments alone, 

Whose nest some prying churl had found, and thence 
By stealth convey’d the unfeather’d innocents ; 

But she supplies the night with mournful strains. 

And melancholy music fills the plains.’ ” 


The letter places our elegant essayist distinctly before us, on a 
bright May evening, with upturned ear, beneath some lofty elm or 
oak, charmed with the beautiful oratorio of the birds in the wood at 
Fulham. One sees in every line the simple unaffected tastes of 
the man—so much more charmed with the grove than the opera, 
so decidedly preferring the nightingale 10 Mrs. Tofts ; nor can we 
fail to recognise the amiable and benevolent feelings which prompted 
Addison to strive after reclaiming the youth of vitiated predilections, 
by the inspiration of a love for purer pleasures. 

But the lover of nature had a wonderfully keen eye for the 


84 


SHADES AND ECHOES OF OLD LONDON. 


observation of men and manners, of which every volume of the 
“ Spectator ” abounds in examples. As a companion sketch to the 
©ne just given, of Addison listening to the birds in a wood, we may 
draw from the “Spectator” one representing him as he listens 
with equal interest, but of another kind, to the stir and bustle of 
the Royal Exchange. “ I have often been pleased to hear disputes 
adjusted between an inhabitant of Japan and an alderman of 
London, or to see a subject of the Great Mogul entering into a 
league with one of the Czar of Muscovy. I am infinitely delighted 
in mixing with these several ministers of commerce as they are 
distinguished by their different walks and different languages; 
sometimes I am jostled among a body of Armenians, sometimes I 
am lost in a crowd of Jews, and sometimes make one in a group of 
Dutchmen. I am a Dane, Swede, or Frenchman, at different 
times; or rather, fane} myself like the old philosopher, who upon 
being asked what countryman he was, replied that he was a citizen 
of the world.” We can see him in the Old Exchange, as we re¬ 
member it before the last fire, looking with a keen eye from under 
that flowing wig and cocked hat of his, upon British and foreign 
merchants. He himself paints a bit of back-ground for his own 
portrait, where he says:—“ When I have been upon the ’Change, 
I have often fancied one of our old kings standing in person where 
he is represented in effigy, and looking down upon the wealthy 
concourse of people with which that place is every day filled.” 
The old effigies are restored as we listen to the Spectator’s reflec¬ 
tions, and we muse on the shade of the man who, perhaps rudely 
pushed aside by some burly citizen, full of the consciousness of 
being a millionaire, is about by his quiet pen to immortalize the 
whole scene, though he alone of all the group will remain capable 
of being individualized by posterity. 

In 1710, Addison was living in St. James’s*place. He had 
lodgings there, and, according to Pope, the essayist’s old school 


JOSEPH ADDISON. 


85 


fellow and literary coadjutor, Steele, together with Budgell, 
Philips, Carey, Davenant, and Colonel Brett, used to drop in and 
take breakfast with him. The “ Tatler” and the “ Spectator ” had 
then been recently established, and were exciting no small interest 
in all reading circles, royalty even looking out for the new number 
to be served up with the provisions of the breakfast table. The 
new number of the periodical, fresh from the press, and lying 
before them, would of course be the subject of conversation among 
the wits who met in St. James’s-place, to enjoy Addison’s hospi¬ 
tality, including, as the party did, some who were contributors ; 
nor would they be so regardless of the number sold as not to touch 
at times on that point. It is rather curious in these days of large 
circulation for such productions, to be told by Dr. Johnson relative 
to the “ Tatler ” and the “ Spectator “ I once heard it observed 
that the sale may be calculated by the product of the tax related 
in the last number to produce more than twenty pounds a week, 
and therefore stated at one and twenty pounds, or three pounds 
ten shillings a day; this, at a half-penny a paper, will give 1680 
for the daily number.” The Doctor speaks of this as no great sale; 
and intimates that the circulation of the “ Spectator ” at the time 
of its periodical issue, was likely to grow less, if, as Swift says was 
the case, the public were wearied by incessant allusions to “ the 
fair sex.” 

Following the shade of Addison, we are plunged into the midst 
of the fashionable society of the metropolis, both literary and 
political. In those days, taverns were to them what West-end clubs 
are to the same classes now. Between the Temple gates and Temple 
Bar was a famous place of this description, bearing the hideous 
name of the Devil’s Tavern. Child’s Bank adjoins the site on which 
it stood.' Ben Jonson and the wits of his day had made it then- 
rendezvous. His “Leges Convivales ” were written for the regula¬ 
tion of their proceedings, and the Latin law ol “ insipida poemata 


86 


SHADES AND ECHOES OF OLD LONDON. 


nulla recitantur ” (insipid poems are not to be repeated) is supposed 
to mean that the rare Ben Jonson considered his own productions 
would certainly be otherwise, and that he ought to have the business 
of recitation pretty much to himself. In 1710, Ave meet with our 
great essayist in this tavern with the ugly appellation. He is in 
the midst of political excitement; for a general election is raging 
throughout the land, full of all sorts of excesses, such as Hogarth 
afterwards delineated in one of his admirable pictures. “ I dined 
to-day,” (Oct. 12,) Swift tells us in a letter to Stella, “ with Dr. 
Garth and Mr. Addison, at the Devil Tavern, near Temple Bar: and 
it is well I dine every day, else I should be longer making out my 
letters; for we are yet in a very dull state, only inquiring every 
day after new elections, where the Tories carry it among the new 
members six to one. Mr. Addison’s election has passed easy and 
undisputed, and I believe if he had a mind to be chosen king, he 
would hardly be refused.” 

So Addison was then in the zenith of popularity; and though a 
Whig, when Whigs were at a discount, could hold up his head 
aloft among Tory rivals. The pictorial scene of Addison, Garth, 
and Swift, in an oak parlour, round a table covered with smoking 
viands, is prosaic and conceivable enough; but some may think 
there must have been rare discourse between such a trio—wonder¬ 
ful scintillations, brisk repartees, keen satire, shrewd remarks : only 
experience teaches that such men in private are often common¬ 
place like other people—that the learned do not always appear 
so very learned, or wits so very witty. In a snug little party of 
intimate friends, Addison was likely to be at ease and communica¬ 
tive. Pope tells us his conversation had a charm in it he had never 
found in any other man’s; but before strangers he was stiff and 
silent. Chesterfield declared him the most timorous and awkward 
man he ever saw, and Addison himself was conscious enough of the 
difference between the power he had over his pen and his tongue. 


JOSEPH ADDISON. 


87 


He used to say of his mental resources, that though “he could 
draw bills for a thousand pounds, he had not a guinea in his 
pocket. ’ Johnson thinks Chesterfield’s testimony must be qualified ; 
perhaps so. Hut though Addison succeeded so well in the world, 
it does not follow that he was not very timorous and awkward ; for 
high reputation won by literature may cover a good deal of that, 
and much that is attractive and lovable may be even visiblv 
beneath the surface. 

Addison’s haunts, we are sorry to notice, lay very much among 
taverns ; and though there is no doubt he there picked up a good 
deal of that practical wisdom which runs throughout his essays, he 
could hardly fail to contract habits injurious to his character 
and welfare. Though it is not known that he was ever in¬ 
toxicated, he often transgressed the bounds of moderation—a fact 
we dare not conceal, but which we record with deep sorrow, 
furnishing as it does one of a large collection of examples show¬ 
ing that the most refined intellectual taste is no sufficient 
check against temptations to the excessive indulgence of the 
appetites. Whatever might appear to the contrary in his writings? 
there must have been in Addison a weakness of moral and religious 
principle as applied to the deportment of his life; but we hope 
that in his last days, after religion had more than ever occupied hi? 
pen, its influence more powerfully touched his heart, producing 
contrition for the past and reformation for the future. 

The house that Addison most frequented was Button’s, on the 
south side of Russell-street, Covent-garden. The landlord, whose 
name it bore, had been a servant in the family of the countess of 
Warwick, and had taken the house under Addison’s express 
patronage. It was in 1712 that the place was opened, just as the 
fame of the poet was established by the publication of “ Cato.” A 
lion’s head and paws, serving as a letterbox for the reception of 
literary communications, was placed in front of the building, and 


88 


SHADES AND ECHOES OF OLD LONDON. 


the editor of the “ Guardian ” says:—“ Whatever the lion swallows, 
I shall digest for the use of the public.” “ He is indeed a proper 
emblem of knowledge and action, being all head and paws.” 
“ Addison usually studied all the morning, then met his party at 
Button’s, dined there, aud stayed five or six hours, and sometimes 
far into the night.” 

A glimpse of the relations between Addison and Pope is given 
in the following extract from the latter :— l< There had been a cold¬ 
ness between me and Mr. Addison for some time, and we had not 
been in company together for a good while anywhere but at 
Button’s coffee-house, where I used to see him almost every day. 
On his meeting me there one day in particular, he took me 
aside and said he should be glad to dine with me at such a 
tavern, if I would stay till those people (Budgell and Phillips) 
were gone.” 

Of a visit by Addison to St. James’s Coffee-house, St. James’s- 
street, now swept away, we have a graphic sketch from his own 
pen, full of easy description and delicate satire—characteristics of a 
style in which he has few rivals:—“I called at the St. James’s, 
where I found the whole outward room in a buzz of politics. The 
speculations were but very indifferent towards the door, but grew 
finer as you advanced towards the upper end of the room, and were 
so much improved by a knot of theorists who sat in the inner room, 
within the steams of the coffee-pot, that I heard the whole Spanish 
monarchy disposed of, and all the line of Bourbon provided for, in 
less than a quarter of an hour.” Addison, also, was a member of 
the Kit-Kat Club, which met at an obscure house in Shire-lane. 
Into the archaeological question of the origin of its title we cannot 
enter; some deriving it from Christopher Kat, a pastry-cook, and 
some from the name given to certain pies of great celebrity. 
Whencesoever the appellation came, it is still preserved to denote 
portraits of a certain size, from the circumstance of pictures so 


JOSEPH ADDISON. 


89 


painted by Sir Godfrey Kneller having been hung up round the 
club-room. 

Addison’s parliamentary career is quite a mystery. He was for 
some time a representative, and actually rose to be one of the 
principal secretaries of state, under the Stanhope ministry, in the 
reign of George I., yet his name never figures in debate : and though 
he held high office, the historian of England finds scarcely any 
occasion for introducing him, except to record his appointment and 
resignation. He could not speak: so we have to picture him on 
the ministerial bench in Old St. Stephen’s, in the days of the first 
George, among the curly wigs and court suits that crowded the 
House of Commons, listening to the orations of others, and well 
weighing their arguments, and inwardly cogitating replies, but all 
the while remaining silent—a hard case, indeed, for a secretary of 
state, and for his fellow-senators too. Nor did the pen, so fluent 
with the “ Spectator,” seem made for official documents; for we 
are informed that his fastidiousness about style so embarrassed 
him, when called to prepare an urgent despatch, that he was 
compelled to resign the task into the hands of one of his subordi¬ 
nates in office. In literary composition, we are informed by Steele, 
that Addison, when he had “ made his plan for what he designed 
to write, would walk about a room, and dictate it into language, 
with as much freedom and ease as anyone could write it down, and 
attend to the coherence and grammar of what he dictated.” His 
difficulty about despatches, and his inability to speak in parliament, 
would of themselves have speedily necessitated his retirement from 
public life; but ill health occurred as an additional reason, and 
brought Addison’s official career to an end in 1718. Steele, whom 
we saw as his playmate in the Charter-house school, had been 
through life the intimate friend of Addison; but the closing days 
of the latter were beclouded by the disruption of this friendship, 
and by a violent controversy between them about a bill for the 


.90 


SHADES AND ECHOES OF OLD LONDON. 


limitation of the peerage. “ Truly,” says the best of books, “ a 
brother offended is harder to be won than a strong city, and their 
contentions are like the bars of a castle.” 

In 1716, Addison had married the dowager-countess of Warwick, 
and thereby became occupant of Holland-house, Kensington, the 
ancestral abode of that lady. 

In the old coaching days, the traveller to the west of England, 
as he passed through Kensington on a bright summer morning, 
was sure to turn with admiration and pleasure to look on the fine 
green elm trees, which line the border of the park next the road ; 
and through the openings under and between the branches he 
would catch glimpses of the quaint arcades, gables, towers, turrets, 
roofs, and chimney-tops, which compose this lordly habitation, 
erected in the reign of the first James. Since that kind of traffic 
has been drained off by railways, fewer strangers see the most 
interesting specimen of old architecture to the west of London. 
Considerable changes have been wrought in its appearance, not 
indeed at all altering its outlines or even details, but rather 
restoring the freshness of its original beauty; while the new 
terrace raised in front of the house, with its bright brick walls? 
stone balustrades, and huge white garden-vases full of geraniums, 
greatly adds to the attractiveness of the picture, especially as seen 
on a clear summer’s afternoon, when a morning’s shower has given 
richer tints and warmer life to grass and trees, plants and shrubs. 
There is a vast deal connected with the edifice upon which we are 
here tempted for a while to dwell; but the associations of Holland- 
house, save as they belong to Addison, must be omitted. With 
the long gallery, or library, which forms the west wing, tradition 
links his name in by no means honourable conjunction. “ I have 
heard,” says Faulkner, ‘‘that Addison had a table with a bottle of 
wine placed at each end, and when in the fervour of composition, 
was in the habit of pacing this narrow gallery between glass and 


JOSEPH ADDISON. 


91 


glass.” He adds, “ Fancy may trace the exquisite good humour 
which enlivens his paper to the mirth inspired by wine; but there 
is too much sober good sense in all his lucubrations, even when 
he indulges most in pleasantry, to allow us to give implicit credence 
to a tradition invented probably as an excuse for intemperance by 
such as can empty two bottles of wine, but never produce a 
‘ Spectator ’ or a * Freeholder.’ ” 

This is a charitable surmise, and may be true ; but if Addison— 
even beyond some of his companions in an age not distinguished 
for sobriety in polite circles—indulged occasionally in potations 
beyond the limits of temperance, probably it was the result of 
domestic unhappiness ; for it is well known that his marriage with 
the countess was by no means felicitous. His home had no charms; 
princely apartments, magnificent furniture, tasteful ornaments, 
pictures, and statuary, could not compensate for the want of do¬ 
mestic harmony and peace. So he wandered from scenes embittered 
by sad associations, in quest of social pleasures such as had too often 
led him astray. A tavern at the bottom of Holland-house-lane, once 
called the White Horse Inn, now known as the Holland Arms, is 
said to have been his place of resort in an afternoon, when he 
wanted to beguile a leisure hour, and there temptations presented 
themselves, which the theoretical moralist might not always have 
power entirely to resist. 

It w T as within a chamber in Holland-house that there occurred 
the scene, so often noticed, of Addison’s farewell to the young Earl 
of Warwick. Having sent for him, he grasped his hand, and softly 
said —“ See in what peace a Christian can die.” Well-founded, 
indeed, is that peace which rests oil “ the hope set before us in the 
gospelwhen whatever of sin and folly there has been in life 
becomes the subject of sincere repentance. 

Addison sleeps in Westminster Abbey, having been honoured to 
lie in state in the Jerusalem Chamber. Tickel mourned over his 


92 


SHADES AND ECHOES OF OLD LONDON. 


death in an elegy, of which Johnson said, that “ a more sublime or 
more elegant funeral poem is not to be found in the English 
language.” The description he gives of the poet’s obsequies places 
us beside the procession as it slowly paces down the aisle to lay 
Addison in his last earthly home; and with these lines we bid him 
farewell:— 


“ Can I forget the dismal night that gave 
My soul’s best part for ever to the grave ? 

How silent did his old companions tread, 

By midnight lamps, the mansions of the dead, 

Through breathing statues, then unheeded things. 
Through rows of warriors and through walks of kings I 
What awe did the slow solemn knell inspire, 

The pealing organ and the pausing choir, 

The duties by the lawn-robed prelate paid, 

And the last words, that dust to dust convey’d 
While speechless o’er thy closing grave we bend. 
Accept these tears, thou dear departed friend.” 


VII. SIR ISAAC NEWTON. 

The present Somerset House is sometimes confounded with its pre¬ 
decessor, the “ large and goodly house” described by John Stowe, 
and built by the bold and proud Protector of that name, who 
swayed the destinies of England during the nominal reign of 
Edward Vi. —the amiable boy-king. That princely abode—con¬ 
nected with the memory of its founder; of Henrietta, the queen 
of Charles I., to whom it was assigned by her royal husband; of 
Oliver Cromwell, who there lay in state; and of Monk duke of 
Albemarle, to whom a similar honour was paid within its walls 



SIR ISAAC NEWTON. 


93 


—was demolished pursuant to an Act of Parliament passed in 1775. 
The present pile of buildings, which so many thousand Londoners 
pass without notice, but which the stranger pauses to look upon as 
a note-worthy edifice, was reared upon the site of the old one, in 
accordance with plans which had been formed by Sir William 
Chambers, a distinguished architect of that day. The building is 
not without grandeur in its general design and proportions, or 
without beauty in its particular and minute details; but a far 
greater interest belongs to the place as derived from its manifold 
associations. 

“When I first came to this building,” an old clerk in the audit 
office told Mr. Cunningham, who records the fact in his interesting 
Handbook of London, “ I was in the habit of seeing for many 
mornings a thin spare naval officer, with only one arm, enter the 
vestibule at a smart step and make direct for the Admiralty, over 
the rough round stones of the quadrangle, instead of taking, what 
others generally took and continue to take, the smooth pavement 
at the sides. His thin frail figure shook at every step, and I often 
wondered why he chose so rough a footway; but I ceased to 
wonder when I heard that the thin frail officer was no other than 
Lord Nelson, who always took the nearest way to the place lie 
wanted to go.” It was indeed the manner of the man; and within 
that slim frame there beat a lion’s heart, allied to a quickness of 
perception, a power of calculating probabilities, a calmness of 
reflection, and a mastery of will, before whose united influence 
fleets under his command sailed on to victory, and adverse arma¬ 
ments fled or struck in disorder and defeat. He heeded not the 
roughness of his way, w r as blind to difficulties, and would not recog¬ 
nise the word “ impossible,” but steered right on by the most direct 
route to the accomplishment of his designs. 

We are not, however, in quest of warlike associations, though 
having lighted on this notable one we would not pass it by 


94 


SHADES AND ECHOES OF OLD LONDON. 


unnoticed: our search is rather after those who have won more 
enduring triumphs than were ever gained on field or flood. “ The 
results of intellectual labour or scientific genius,” says Sir H. Davy, 
“ are permanent and incapable of being lost. Monarchs change 
their plans, governments their objects, a fleet or an army effect 
their object and then pass away; but a piece of steel touched by 
the magnet preserves its character for ever, and secures to man 
the dominion of the trackless ocean.” The illustrious man who 
penned this profound sentence will long be remembered in con¬ 
nection with that part of the building appropriated to the Koyal 
Society. It is to the left as you enter within the elegant vestibule, 
crowned with its key-stone masques of river deities. Through 
that doorway often passed the inventor of the safety-lamp, and 
within the rooms devoted to the learned conclave of which he was 
president there were frequently disclosed the results of his extra¬ 
ordinary discoveries. Watt, and Wollaston, and other great 
names, recur to us as we turn aside from the dense throng of 
wayfarers, who crowd all day along the pavement, to muse 
in the portico on past times, and to meditate on the human¬ 
izing influences of the studies pursued by those, of whom 
the building will, as long as it remains, be the magnificent 
memorial. 

But it is beyond our design—it would distract our attention— 
to dwell upon the numerous reminiscences of the biography of 
science revived by the sight of these smoke-stained walls, within 
which other learned bodies meet beside the Koyal Society : much 
further remote from our purpose would it be to yield to the 
tempting story of artistic achievements, which the right-hand 
entrance under the same vestibule tells ; for through it you pass 
into the School of Design, where for so many years the Academy 
of Arts exhibited their beautiful works in painting and sculpture. 
Our thoughts are at present fixed on one of the great departed, 


SIR ISAAC NEWTON. 


95 


who, though his earthly career was run long before this edifice was 
raised, is identified with the Royal Society, and therefore with the 
place of its assembling, as his bust over the left-hand doorway 
indicates. There we meet the shade of Sir Isaac Newton, 
portly but not tall, his locks silvery but abundant without any 
baldness, with eyes sparkling and piercing, though they fail to 
indicate the profound genius which looks through them into the 
secrets of the universe ; his figure and face come before us, to 
awaken grateful homage as we reflect on his character and 
history. Wonderful humility blends with intellectual greatness. 
To other men he seems a spirit of higher rank, having superhuman 
faculties of mental vision, wont to soar into regions which the 
vulture’s eye hath never seen : to himself he seems but a little boy, 
playing with shells by the sea-side. Others were taken up with 
what Newton did : he himself was thinking of what remained 
undiscovered. So it is ever with genius—the broader the range 
of view, the wdder the horizon of mystery. He who understands 
more than others, is conscious beyond others of what cannot be 
understood. 

Let us enter the apartment devoted to meetings of the Royal 
Society. There hang three portraits of the great philosopher; 
one, as it ought to be, suspended over the president’s chair, to 
indicate, we may suppose, that Newton is ever to be regarded as 
the presiding genius over the researches and deliberations of 
British science. Still more lively mementoes of him are preserved 
among the Royal Society’s treasures. There is a solar dial made 
by the boy Isaac, when, instead of studying his grammar and 
scanning Virgil and Horace, he was busy making windmills and 
waterclocks. In fancy, we see him going along the road to 
Grantham on a market-day, with the old servant whom his mother 
sent to take care of him, and then stopping by the wayside to 
watch the motions of a waterwheel, reflecting upon the mecha- 


90 


SHADES AND ECHOES OF OLD LONDON. 


nical principles involved in the simplest contrivances. It is pleasant, 
with our knowledge of what he afterwards became, to sit down on 
the green bank by the river-side, and to speculate upon the ignor¬ 
ance of the old servant who accompanied him, and of the farmers 
they saluted by the way, as to the illustrious destiny which awaited 
the widow’s son who lived in the manor house of Woolsthorpe. 
The reflecting telescope, preserved along witli the dial, was made 
by Newton in his thirtieth year, and reminds us of the deep 
mathematical studies he was then pursuing at Cambridge. The 
autograph MS. of the Principia, also kept here, gives increased 
vividness to the picture of this extraordinary person in his study, 
solving mysterious problems, and suggesting others still more 
mysterious: and then the lock of silvery hair, the last of the 
Newtonian relics belonging to the Society, comes in as a finishing 
touch to fancy’s picture, like one more stroke of the pencil, 
which, when a portrait is just complete, gives life and expression 
to the whole. 

After all, it must be remembered that in Newton’s time th 
Royal Society met elsewhere. The gatherings out of which it arose 
were first in Oxford during the Commonwealth, and then subse¬ 
quently at Gresham College, London. There it continued after 
Charles n. gave the philosophers a charter and the body was 
completely formed, which happened in 1664. Isaac Newton 
became a member in January, 1674, when he was excused the 
customary payment of a shilling a week, “ on account of his low 
circumstances, as he represented.” The old Gresham College was 
long since swept away. It stood in Broad-street, on the ground 
now occupied by the Excise Office; so, in following the shades of 
the departed about the streets of London, we pause opposite the 
place now devoted to business connected with our national revenue, 
and easily transform it, by a touch with the wand of fancy, under the 
guidance of archaeological research, into an old quadrilateral range 


SIR ISAAC NEWTON. 


97 


of buildings, a story high, with attics above, enclosing an open 
square, refreshed by rows of trees ; the whole in the Flemish style, 
and having a very sober and quiet look—and there we see the 
shadow of Isaac, a young man of thirty-two, passing along the 
court to ascend the steps. If he was awhile a pecuniary debtor to 
the slender amount of a shilling a week, certainly he soon laid the 
Society under obligations of another description, to an incalculable 
extent, by his great discoveries, which were acknowledged, so far 
as conferring honour could be an acknowledgment, in 1703, by 
his election to the presidential chair. 

We have an account, by a foreign member of the Society, of the 
appearance of the room and the assembled philosophers, about ten 
years after Newton’s admission. The sketch he gives is very 
graphic, and is no doubt a truthful picture of the scene pre¬ 
sented in Gresham College, Basinghall-street, after Newton had 
attained the presidency. “The room,” says Sorbiere, historio¬ 
grapher to the French King, “ where the Society meets is 
large and wainscotted: there is a large table before the chimney 
with seven or eight chairs covered with green cloth about it, 
and two rows of wooden and matted benches to lean on, the 
first being higher than the others, in form like an amphitheatre. 
The president and council are elective ; they mind no precedency 
in the Society, but the president sits at the middle of the table in 
an elbow chair, with his back to the chimney. The secretary sits 
at the end of the table on his left hand, and they have each of 
them pen, ink, and paper before them. I saw nobody sit in the 
chairs ; I think they are reserved for persons of great quality, or 
those who have occasion to draw near the president. All the other 
members take their places as they think fit, and without ceremony; 
and if any one comes in after the Society is fixed, nobody stirs, 
but he takes a place presently where he can find it, so that no 
interruption may be given to him that speaks. The president 

E 


08 SHADES AND ECHOES OF OLD LONDON. 

has a little wooden mace in his hand, with which he strikes the 
table when he would command silence: they address their 
discourse to him bareheaded till he makes a sign for them to put 
on their hats; and there is a relation given in a few words of 
what is thought proper to be said concerning the experiments 
proposed by the secretary. There is nobody here eager to speak 
that makes a long harangue, or intent upon saying all he knows : 
he’ is never interrupted that speaks, and differences of opinion 
cause no manner of resentment, nor as much as a disobliging way 
of speech; there is nothing seemed to me to be more civil, 
respectful, and better managed than this meeting; and if there 
be any private discourses held between any while a member is 
speaking, they only whisper, and the least sign from the president 
causes a sudden stop, though they have not told their mind out. 
I took special notice of this conduct in a body consisting of so many 
persons and of such different nations.” 

This Teniers-like painting of the old room, with its learned 
occupants, gives a very clear idea of the scene when Newton 
attended as a simple member; and it only requires us to put him 
in the chair, with the wooden mace in his hand, to have the 
picture of the Eoyal Society under his presidency, till the year 
1710, when the meetings were removed to another place. It was 
Crane-court, Fleet-street, whither the illustrious institute emigrated, 
and there our great English philosopher continued to preside till 
his death, in 1727. Strype describes the court as an open space 
with freestone pavement, graced with good buildings inhabited by 
persons of repute, the large front house with stone steps being the 
building used by the Society. 

Crane-court, then, is another of the nooks, beside a noisy bustling 
street in the great metropolis, where a contemplative mind may 
escape the turmoil of the present and enter the shadowy regions of 
the past: and in this instance it is to commune not with one great 


SIR ISAAC NEWTON. 


99 


genius only, but with a number of kindred spirits, who in his 
wake were pushing their barks over the broad pacific ocean of 
Nature’s mysteries. Charles II. used to laugh at Boyle’s weighing 
the air, and thoughtless persons may fancy that the hours spent, 
during the last century, in Crane-court, by English philosophers, 
were for the most part spent in learned trifling: but no one 
acquainted with the connection between science and the useful 
arts will fail to see how much the physical comforts of the present 
generation have been increased by the labours of those illustrious 
men; while every man, who has not made his mind a slave to mere 
utilitarian pursuits, will recognise the value of knowledge for its 
own sake, the high value of its influence on the human faculties, 
and the incalculable importance of an ever-brightening and 
enlarging perception of the wonders of God’s glorious universe. 
It was in 1782 that the Royal Society removed to Somerset House, 
where the Crown had just assigned to its use the apartments it now 
occupies; but the room in “ the large house ” which Strype speaks ' 
of, so interesting from its connection with Newton’s presidency, 
still remains in an unaltered state. 

This great man was elected by the university of Cambridge, in 
1688, to serve for them in parliament; and, in 1695, he became 
warden of the mint, with a salary of between 5007 and 6007 He 
was promoted to the mastership in 1699, after which his salary was 
from 12007 to 15007 There could be no excuse now, on the score 
of scanty means, for not paying the shilling a week. Newton grew’ 
rich, and died worth 32,0007 For some years before he obtained 
the wardenship he resided at Cambridge, though of course frequently 
visiting town on political and scientific business. During one of 
these visits we find him dating a letter from “ the Bull in Shore¬ 
ditch a letter, by the way, painful to read, as it indicates that 
he was at the time labouring under nervousness to an extent that 
painfully affected his mind. He was thought by some to be 


100 


SHADES AND ECHOES OF OLD LONDON. 


positively insane , but the affection does not seem to have gone so 
far as to justify the application of that term. 

After his appointment to office under government, he came to 
live in London, and for some time Jermyn-street was the place of 
his abode. It was while living there that the rupture began between 
him and Flamsteed. They had been intimate friends; but a cool¬ 
ness arose from some unexplained cause in 1696. Flamsteed had 
supplied Newton with lunar observations, and had mentioned the 
fact to his acquaintance, perhaps with some little vanity. The 
more renowned philosopher, on this account, rather querulously 
rebuked his fellow-labourer, and in the year 1704 very serious 
differences appeared between them. Flamsteed’s catalogue of 
stars, a most valuable contribution to the cause of science, was 
placed in the hands of Newton and others for examination, in 
consequence of Prince George of Denmark having offered to bear 
the expense of printing it. According to the ex parte statement of 
Flamsteed, he received from this committee a good deal of vexatious 
treatment, after which they demanded that a copy of the catalogue, 
which Flamsteed still held in his possession, should be given up to 
them. This demand was complied with under protest; the cata¬ 
logue being sealed up, with the understanding that so it should 
remain until the industrious student and observer should be able to 
complete it. In 1710, Flamsteed found the seal had been broken, 
and that the work was going through the press; a circumstance 
which greatly enraged him, he being by no means one of the meekest 
of men. Violent recriminations between the two illustrious astro¬ 
nomers immediately ensued, into the details of which we have 
neither time nor inclination to enter. We cannot acquit Newton 
of all blame in this affair. The breaking of the seal looks like an 
offence, and so far as he participated in it can scarcely be regarded 
otherwise than as leaving some shade (we cannot determine the 
depth of its hue) on the memory of our great philosopher. Still 


SIR ISAAC NEWTON. 


101 


his eminent virtues, which Sir D. Brewster has so laboriously 
illustrated and so eloquently eulogized, shine with a radiance too 
brilliant to be much obscured by this instance of culpability. 
Yet our reverence for no man’s memory can justify us in shutting 
our eyes to his faults, and we should always feel that historical 
justice demands impartiality in the judgment of every question, 
however it may implicate the fame of distinguished individuals. 
But an end to this. Our ramble into Jermyn-street, in the 
endeavour to trace out the footsteps of the philosopher, has involved 
us in allusions of a painful nature, though it leaves us still among 
the admirers of his character as well as of his discoveries. 

From 1710 till two years before his death, Sir Isaac lived in St. 
Martin’s-street, Leicester-square. Next door to the chapel where 
Toplady used to preach, there stands an old house now covered 
with white stucco. It has seen in its time, like a number of other 
London dwellings, a good many changes. Here once dwelt the 
Envoy of Denmark, then Sir Isaac Newton, next Paul Docminique, 
after that Dr. Burney. Who beside may have lived here we cannot 
tell ; but it has now reached the fag end of its history, and the 
formerly aristocratic residence is let out in separate floors, and 
partly turned into a printing office. Beverence for the great 
astronomer led us lately to pay a visit to the place. We found the 
rooms somewhat altered, but no doubt the staircase remains as it 
was in the days of Newton. The part of the house most 
intimately associated with his name is the little observatory perched 
on the roof. We were permitted to ascend into that spot, to see it 
profaned by its present use, for there we found a shoemaker busy 
at his work. Yet, on second thoughts, a shoemaker’s humble 
employment is no profanation of an astronomer’s study, for shoe¬ 
makers have a mission in this world as well as astronomers. They 
are fellow-workers in the great hive of human industry. Mutual 
helpers are they too. For if the star-gazer instructs the shoe- 


102 


SHADES AND ECHOES OF OLD LONDON. 


maker, the shoemaker makes shoes for the star-gazer. \\ e thought, 
as we stood in that little airy nest, looking at our humble friend, 
and thinking of the great philosopher, how Providence binds all 
ranks together by ties of inter-dependence, and how wrong it is for 
the hand to say to the foot, “ I have no need of thee.” A glass 
cupola probably crowned the observatory in Newton’s time, and 
evidently there was a window in each of the four walls. So 
here he looked out on the London of nearly a century-and-a-half 
ago, hardly less crowded and smoky about the neighbourhood 
than now. Overhead, where Newton turned his eyes with most 
interest, we know it was just the same—the same beautiful stars 
shining out on a cold winter’s night, the same planets sailing along 
the same blue ocean, the same moon throwing its light over the 
same blue fields. What observations, keen and searching—what 
calculations, intricate and profound — what speculations, far- 
reaching and sublime—must there have been, when one of the 
most gifted of mortals from that spot looked out upon the hea¬ 
vens, and in thought went forth on voyages of discovery into the 
most distant regions of the universe. At the calm, still hour of 
midnight—Sirius watching over the city of sleepers—Jupiter carry¬ 
ing his brilliant lamp along his ancient pathway—every one of the 
luminaries in the place appointed by Him who calleth them all by 
their names—there stands the silvery-headed man with his reflect¬ 
ing telescope, occupied with thoughts which we common mortals in 
vain endeavour to conjecture. 

We must journey now further westward, as far as Kensington, 
then a place of great repute for invalids, and also distinguished by 
the residence of the monarch George I., at the old palace there. 
New ton was well known at court. On one occasion, the king, when 
congratulated upon reigning over two kingdoms, replied :—“ Rather 
congratulate me on having such a subject in one as Newton, and 
such a subject in the other as Leibnitz.” And Caroline, wife of 


SIR ISAAC NEWTON. 


103 


the Prince of Wales, afterwards George n„ loved to converse with 
the man who filled Europe with his fame. Declining health and 
the infirmities of years led Newton, in 1725, to seek an abode at 
Kensington. “ It was Sunday night,” says his nephew, Mr. Conduit, 
“the 7th March, 1724-5: at Kensington, with Sir Isaac Newton, in 
his lodgings, just after he was come out of a fit of the gout, which 
he had had in both of his feet for the first time, in the 83rd year of 
liis age ; he was better after it, and had his health clearer, and 
memory stronger, than I had known him then for some years.” A 
year after, we have another notice. “ April 15th, 1726 : I passed the 
whole day with Sir Isaac Newton at his lodgings, Orbell’s-buildings, 
Kensington, which was the last time I saw him. He told me that 
he was born on Christmas day, 1642.” The house still remains, 
occupying a retired corner in the old suburbs, with new squares 
and terraces springing up all around it. It is situated in Bulling- 
ham-place ; and retaining still its mansion-like aspect, with a large 
quiet garden and tall shady trees, it carries us back to the last 
days of Sir Isaac; and looking in through the gate, we picture the 
feeble man of 84, in his garden chair, sitting on the grass-plot on a 
sunny afternoon, musing on subjects more sacred than the stars; 
for Newton was not a mere philosopher, but also a student of 
revelation. In that house he died, on Monday the 20th March, 
having on the previous Saturday been able to read the newspaper, 
and hold a long discourse with Dr. Mead.* 

One more visit, and we complete our pilgrimages to spots where 
we meet the shade of the great Sir Isaac. In the Jerusalem 
Chamber, at Westminster, where the scene of the polemical 
assembly convened there in 1644 flits before us, we behold the 

* There is another old-fashioned dwelling in Kensington connected with Sir Isaac 
Newton, called Woolsthorpe House, from the place of his birth; but upon making 
inquiries we find no evidence of Newton having lived there; and that mistaken idea, 
prevalent in the neighbourhood, seems to have originated in the fact of the estate 
having once belonged to the great philosopher. 


104 


SHADES AND ECHOES OF OLD LONDON. 


coffin of our philosopher placed in state, and then see it borne 
away—dukes and nobles counting it an honour to support the pall 
—to its last earthly resting-place under the pavement of the 
Abbey. There, shades of the departed thickly throng around us: 
crowds of the illustrious meet us in those venerable aisles: but no 
one is more illustrious than he whom we now leave among them. 
We may apply to him, with a little alteration, the beautiful words 
employed, with another reference, by a favourite author in des¬ 
cribing Westminster Abbey. “Well may the world cherish his 
renown; for it has been purchased, not by deeds of violence and 
blood, but by diligent dispensation of knowledge. Well may 
posterity be grateful to his memory; for he has left it an inherit¬ 
ance, not of empty names and sounding actions, but whole 
treasuries of science, bright gems of speculation, and golden views 
of wisdom.” 


VIII. ISAAC WATTS. 

Abney Park is a place associated with melancholy thoughts in the 
minds of ever-growing numbers, within and around the great 
metropolis. They remember a mournful visit there, when the 
funeral procession went slowly winding up the cemetery paths— 
and hillock after hillock, and stone after stone, solemnly glided 
past the carriage window—and the little chapel was entered— 
and the last service was performed—and finally the sorrow¬ 
ing group was circled round the grave, to leave there, till the 
resurrection of the just, the ashes of the dead. Many a precious 
deposit has been laid within the chambers of earth and stone 
which hollow out the under-soil of that great burial ground, 
and names are celebrated there on slab and monument which 



ISAAC WATTS. 


105 


time will not soon let die. A cenotaph monument and statue 
to the memory of the man whose history we are trying to 
note down, rises in Abney Park conspicuously above other 
mementoes of the departed, connecting the place with his honoured 
name, and exciting the visitor to recollections of his works and 
virtues. The figure of Watts, long since dead, is meant to re¬ 
mind us of his association with the place for so long a time when 
living. 

A hundred and fifty years ago, on the site of Abney Park, there 
stood a mansion, which was the happy home of Sir Thomas Abney 
and his family. We have an indistinct remembrance of it, just- 
before it was pulled down, as we happened to glance at it in our 
rambles through the quiet street of Stoke Newington, with its old 
brick front, its old brick wall, and its old iron gate, all redolent of 
the times of William ill. and Queen Anne. There it was in all its 
prime during those eventful reigns—full of quaint and somewhat 
cumbrous furniture—and compassed about, in the garden portion of 
the territory, with noble trees and primly cut shrubs, and box- 
bordered beds of tulips and roses, and sundry old-fashioned flowers, 
cultured according to the most approved taste of Dutch gardening. 
Sir Thomas Abney was Lord Mayor of London in 1700; and we 
fancy we see his lordship with the appendages and satellites of his 
state, starting from Newington to the city to enter on his office, 
and, being a devout and pious man, resolving by God’s help not to 
let the cares and pleasures of his new station draw him away from 
the exercises of faith and prayer; for it is stated that during his 
mayoralty he would suffer no engagement to interfere with the 
regular performance of family devotion. In the house of Sir 
Thomas, Isaac Watts found a home for nearly half the period of his 
long life, and hence our large allusion to the place and its worthy 
master. Not only so, but before Dr. Watts became the inmate of 
Sir Thomas Abney’s mansion, he abode for a while under the roof 

E 2 


I Of) SHADES AND ECHOES OF OLD LONDON. 

of Sir John Hartopp, who also resided at Stoke Newington, and 
there he performed the office of tutor to the good knight’s son. 

The parish church has many monuments and memorials of the 
family, and among the rest this curious entry, relative to the wife 
of Sir John: “1711, Dame Elizabeth Hartopp was buried in 
woollen, the 26th day of November, according to an act of par¬ 
liament made on that behalf: attested before Mr. Gostling, minor 
canon of St. Paul’s, London.” And again, relative to another 
member of the family: “ My lady Hartopp was buried in a velvet 
coffin, September 22, 1730, in the church.” The dame Elizabeth 
who was buried in woollen was the mother of the boy entrusted to 
the charge of Dr. Watts, and what is more important, she was 
daughter of General Eleetwood, who married Bridget, one of 
Oliver Cromwell’s children. 

Dame Hartopp has been sometimes regarded as the offspring of 
Bridget, and consequently as the Protector’s granddaughter; and 
if that view of her lineage were correct, then the youth to whom 
Watts became tutor would be no other than a great grandson of 
the strong-willed man who, without a crown, swayed a sceptre over 
three old kingdoms. But Noble, in his “ Memoirs of the Pro- 
tectoral House,” shows, as we think satisfactorily, that Elizabeth, 
who was married to Sir John Hartopp, was a daughter of Fleetwood 
by his first wife, Frances Smith. Still the Hartopps would be 
intimately connected with the Cromwells, the family traditions of 
the latter would be familiar to the former, and stories of Oliver 
and his son-in-law would often be told in the dining-hall and the 
gardens of Sir John at Newington. 

Isaac Watts had begun to preach while living with the Hartopps. 
In his twenty-fourth year he delivered his first sermon. He was 
soon invited to assist Dr. Chauncey in Mark-lane, where the church 
assembled of which Sir John Hartopp was member. Afterwards, 
on the retirement of the old pastor, Watts was invited to undertake 


ISAAC WATTS. 


107 


the charge, and he was ordained March 18th, 1702. But ill health, 
which made him reluctant to accept the office, interfered very often 
with his discharge of the duties. He suffered violent illness, and 
had to go to -Tunbridge Wells to recruit his strength. In 1712, 
nervous disease had so grown upon him that he was compelled 
totally to suspend his public labours. 

For four years Watts was obliged to abandon the exercise of his 
ministry, and Mr. Price became his assistant at Bury-street, whither 
the congregation had removed from Mark-lane. Sir Thomas 
Abney was a member, and he and his amiable and excellent lady 
were devoted friends to the poet and divine. Watts being lonely— 
a bachelor in the midst of his sad affliction—the Abneys thought 
a pleasant, quiet retreat at Stoke Newington would at least relieve 
his sorrows. So they invited him to come and stay with them. He 
did so. One day, long afterwards, the Countess of Huntingdon 
called upon the invalid :—“ Madam,” said he, “ your ladyship is 
come to see me on a very remarkable day.” “ Why so remark¬ 
able ?” she asked. “ This day thirty years I came hither to the 
house of my good friend Sir Thomas Abney, intending to spend 
but one single week under his friendly roof, and I have extended 
my visit to the length of exactly thirty years.” “ Sir,” added 
Lady Abney, in words which contained infinitely more than mere 
compliment, “ what you have termed a long thirty years’ visit, I 
consider as the shortest visit my family ever received.” 

Stoke Newington, under the roof of the Abneys, thus became 
Watts’s home. Here, and at Theobalds, that famous spot in the 
days of Elizabeth and James i.—where Sir Thomas Abney had a 
favourite summer retreat—the nervous poetical philosopher spent 
many a happy day when his malady left bright intervals of thought 
and affection. “ Here he enjoyed the uninterrupted demonstrations 
of the truest friendship. Here, without any care of his own, he 
had everything which could contribute to the enjoyment of life, 


108 


SHADES AND ECHOES OF -OLD LONDON. 


and favour the unwearied pursuit of his studies. Here he dwelt in 
a family which, for piety, order, harmony, and every virtue, was a 
house of God. Here he had the privilege of a country recess, the 
fragrant bower, the spreading lawn, the flowery garden, and other 
advantages, to soothe his mind and aid his restoration to health, to 
yield him, whenever he chose them, the most grateful intervals 
from his laborious studies, and enable him to return to them with 
redoubled vigour and delight.” 

Watts was chaplain. And morning and evening he led the devo¬ 
tions of the household, and on Sunday night preached to the family. 
Two discourses delivered at Theobalds are inserted in the first volume 
of his sermons, under the title of “ Appearance before Godand 
we can picture the thoughtful conductor of the service, with pale 
face and bent figure, but with piercing eye and distinct though 
feeble voice, slowly and impressively unfolding his subject, to the 
great delight of Sir Thomas and his lady, and the circle of family and 
visitors ; while coachmen and footmen and other servants are sitting 
round the spacious hall, not inattentive to the reverend man whose 
gentle ways have won their heart, and inspired sympathy and love. 

Theobalds often saw Watts hard at work with his books and his 
studies, his treatises on philosophy, his sermons and his hymns. 
There, too, he would walk and muse, rambling through the lanes, 
sitting in the garden, or loitering in the churchyard, where he has 
left the traces of his muse on the grave-stones, One night he was 
watching from a western window the sun as it went down. There 
was a dial over the casement, and the last rays were lingering on 
it, when he took out his ready pencil and wrote:— 

“ Little sun upon the ceiling, 

Ever moving, ever stealing 
Moments, minutes, hours away ; 

May no shade forbid thy shining. 

While the heavenly sun declining 
Calls us to improve the day.” 


ISAAC WATTS. 


109 


A little incident is also recorded which gives a pleasant glimpse 
of the retired life spent at Newington and Theobalds, showing how 
Watts was intent on his Father’s business. “A gentlewoman now 
living, who is an ornament to her sex, told me,” says Dr. Gibbons, 
“ that in younger life, when on a visit at Lady Abney’s, she was 
taken somewhat ill, and was left in the house (the rest of the 
family being gone abroad) with only the doctor; and the good 
man improved the occasion to enter into discourse with her, and 
gave her most excellent advice, of which she has a pleasing 
remembrance to the present day.” 

Watts had the pastor’s and the preacher’s heart, though his 
delicate constitution and impaired health unfitted him for much 
public labour. We see him watching by the death-beds of 
Abney and Hartopp, and we hear him preach funeral sermons for 
both these worthies. They had been men of rank and celebrity ; 
and Watts loved to think of their service on earth as a preparation 
for heaven. So he beautifully said : “ In the world of spirits made 
perfect, David and Moses dwell; both of them were trained up in 
feeding the flocks of their fathers in the wilderness, to feed and to 
rule the nation of Israel, the chosen flock of God; and may we 
not suppose them also trained up in the arts of holy government on 
earth, to be the chiefs of some blessed army, some sacred tribes in 
heaven ? They w T ere directors of the forms of worship in the church 
below, under Divine inspiration ; and might not that fit them to 
become leaders of some celestial assembly, when a multitude of the 
sons of God above come at stated seasons to present themselves 
before the throne? We know for certain that there are gradations 
of rank and authority among the angels, that excel in strength, 
thrones and dominions, principalities and powers; and the same may 
be predicated of glorified saints, not merely upon the ground of ana¬ 
logy, but upon the Scripture testimony that assigns to the possessor 
of ten talents rule over ten cities, and of five talents over five cities.” 


110 


SHADES AND ECHOES OF OLD LONDON. 


We can follow Watts also to the dying chamber of the Reverend 
Samuel Rosewell, as we listen to his account of that holy man’s 
departure, given one Sunday morning to the congregation at Bury- 
street. 

“ Come, my friends,” says he, “ come into the chamber of a 
dying Christian; come, approach his pillow, and hear his holy 
language: ‘ I am going up to heaven, and I long to be gone— 
to be where my Saviour is. Why are his chariot wheels so long in 
coming? I hope I am a sincere Christian, but the meanest and 
the most unworthy. I know I am a great sinner, but did not Christ 
come to save the chief of sinners ? I have trusted in him, and I 
have strong consolation. I love God; I love Christ. I desire to 
love him more, to be more like him, and to serve him in heaven 
without sin. Dear brother, I shall see you at the right hand of 
Christ. There I shall see our friends who are gone a little before 
(alluding to Sir T. Abney). I go to my God and to your God—to 
my Saviour, and to your Saviour.’ ” 

Watts’s health improved in 1A22, and he preached regularly and 
often ; but, though an able minister of the New Testament, deliver¬ 
ing sermons instructive and edifying, it does not appear that his 
forte lay in the work of the pulpit so much as in the work of the 
press. The great Master of all meant that Watts should chiefly 
benefit mankind by his writings. The grand instrument of his 
service was the pen. Thus “ he served his generation according to 
the will of Godand we cannot but see the hand of Providence 
in the arrangement which brought him into the family of the 
Abneys for that long visit, which stands unrivalled in the annals of 
hospitality, since by such means extraordinary facilities were af¬ 
forded for literary occupation; leisure was supplied, while stimulus 
was not withdrawn. Fully do we concur in the view taken of Dr. 
Watts’ vocation, and of the value of his labours, as given in the 
following passage from the “ North British Review.” 


ISAAC WATTS. 


Ill 


“ As far as his own instincts and the circumstances of the times 
could indicate, Dr. Watts’s calling was the improvement of Christian 
literature. In the previous century, Bishop Hall had published 
the banns between letters and religion, and in his pungent * Charac¬ 
ters ’ and entertaining ‘ Epistles ’ he had laboured to press into the 
service of the sanctuary the shrewd observation of Theophrastus 
and the varied intelligence and vivacity of Pliny. But the example 
had not been followed. Notwithstanding the unprecedented amount 
of theological authorship with which the intervening age had 
overflowed, little or nothing had been done to propitiate men of 
taste to evangelical religion ; and although, as regarded the older 
generation, who had listened to Baxter and Owen, this was of minor 
moment, it greatly concerned their successors. Pious matrons in 
the country, and God-fearing merchants in the city, felt a famine 
of the word; and whilst, in the meetings they frequented, they 
sighed for the sop and the savour to which they had been accus¬ 
tomed in their youth, their sons and daughters were reading Pope 
and Addison throughout the week, and in the self-same meetings 
to which they were dragged by their pious seniors on the sabbaths, 
they were yawning at the prolixity of the sermon, or tittering at 
the grotesque similes of the preacher. Nor on the Sunday evening, 
in the parlour at home, was the matter greatly mended. It would 
have been well for the young people if they had read the good 
books which their parents recommended, or sung the psalms of 
which these never wearied; but, after yesterday’s * Spectator,’ 
Owen on Perseverance was heavy reading, and even the best 
disposed youth could hardly convince himself that Sternhold was 
sublimer than Dryden. Dr. Watts felt the desideratum. The 
whole course of his studies had prepared him for supplying it, and 
there was nothing to which he was more inclined by the entire 
bent of his genius. And now, in the good providence of God, he 
enjoyed the opportunity, and the rest of his life was mainly spent 


112 


SHADES AND ECHOES OF OLD LONDON. 


in advancing the cause of Christian culture, through the medium 
of an attractive authorship.” 

Among lives barren of incident though fruitful in interest, that 
of Dr. Watts is singularly so. Almost always living in seclusion, 
for long periods an invalid, finding his chief stimulus and recreation 
in study and the companionship of a few select friends, what very 
remarkable events could occur in his history? Passing from Stoke 
Newington to Theobalds, or down to Tonbridge Wells, or South¬ 
ampton, there you have Watts’s travels. Preaching at Bury- 
street, with more or less irregularity in consequence of ill health, 
or hearing Mr. Price, his assistant, delivering a charity sermon on 
some rare occasions ; paying pastoral visits now and then; and 
discharging the duties connected with certain trusts, of which he 
had in part the administration: there you have Watts’s public life. 
Beading, writing, thinking, making books and despatching letters: 
there you have Watts’s main occupation, the business and burden, 
and we believe the pleasure too, of his most useful days. 

His study in good Lady Abney’s house at Newington was the 
local centre of his existence. From it he at times diverged, only to 
return to it again with a deeper feeling of home attachment. So let 
us step into that favoured retreat. We pass the stately elms which 
shadow the Manor House, and enter the hall of the hospitable 
abode. Wait for a moment here, in what is called the painted 
room. It is moulded in gilt, with panels enclosing pictures, the 
subjects taken from the poems of Ovid. But in the window 
shutters are some strange contrasts with these heathen embellish¬ 
ments ; for there, contributed we are told by Watts’ pencil (the 
poet being an artist too), are emblems of grief and death, mingled 
with the arms of Gunston and Abney, and intended doubtless to 
honour their memory. There are other sketches, too, in this 
apartment by him who is the genius loci —heads of Democritus, 
Heraclitus, Aristotle, and Alexander, executed with taste and skill. 


ISAAC WATTS. 


113 


But now let us approach the doctor’s study. Here are some 
lines from Horace, hung up in a frame outside the door, denouncing 
the faithless friend. Within, the shelves are loaded with a goodly 
array of books—poetical, philosophical, historical, theological, and 
critical. Where there are no shelves, there are prints of noted 
persons, chiefly divines. A lofty panel covers the fireplace, with 
inscriptions from Horace on either side: the one where the portraits 
are numerous, indicating that the space is filled up by shades of 
the departed; the other, where they are fewer, soliciting additions 
to the illustrious group. The classical fancifulness of all this 
indicates the scholar and the poet; but the avocations of the 
worthy occupant of this literary retreat indicate those noble 
purposes, those high Christian aims, of which all else in his 
character and habits were ornamental adjuncts. 

There he sits at his writing table, enveloped in a scholarly robe, 
small in figure, and sickly in complexion; the forehead not so 
broad and high as we might expect, limited somewhat by the wig 
that crowns and borders it; the features large and marked, the 
eyes clear and burning. On his table lie MSS. full of facts and 
speculations which he is moulding into form, and will ere long 
publish as “ Philosophical Essays,” and “ A Scheme of Ontology.” 
He has just been writing a letter to Mr. Coward, the founder of a 
trust for the education of ministers and the promotion of evangelical 
religion, of which Dr. Watts is a trustee. Dr. Doddridge is tutor 
of an academy, largely supported out of the funds. Here is a letter 
from him, which fills the now famed hymn*writer with the purest 
and richest joy and thankfulness. “On Wednesday last I was 
preaching in a barn to a pretty large assembly of plain country 
people at a village a few miles off. After a sermon from Hebrews 
vi. 12, we sang one of your hymns (which, if I remember right, was 
the 140th of the second book), and in that part of the worship I 
had the satisfaction to observe tears in the eyes of several of the 


114 


SHADES AND ECHOES OF OLD LONDON. 


auditory; and after the service was over, some of them told me 
that they were not able to sing, so deeply were their minds affected 
with it; and the clerk in particular told me he could hardly utter 
the words of it. These were most of them poor people, who work 
for their living. On the mention of your name, I found they had 
read several of your books with great delight, and that your hymns 
and psalms were almost their daily entertainment. And when one 
of the company said, ‘ What if Dr. Watts should come down to 
Northampton ?’ another replied, with a remarkable warmth, 4 The 
very sight of him would be like an ordinance to me.’ ” 

Watts and Doddridge—the former an old man, the latter a 
comparatively young one—grew into one another’s hearts most 
remarkably during the last dozen years, or so, of life—the younger 
not long surviving his ministerial friend and father. “ The Eise 
and Progress of Religion in the Soul ” was a work projected by 
Dr. Watts, but from growing infirmities unexecuted by him, and 
committed to the charge of Doddridge. He says, in 1743 : “ I am 
hard at work on my book of the 4 Rise and Progress of Religion,’ 
which Dr. Watts is impatient to see and I am eager to finish, lest 
he should slip away to heaven before it is done.” 

Watts wrote to Doddridge in the following year:— 44 1 long to 
have your 4 Rise and Progress of Religion ’ appear in the world. I 
wish my health had been so far established that I could have read 
over every line with the attention it merits; but I am not ashamed, 
with what I have read, to recommend it as the best treatise on 
practical religion which is to be found in our language ; and I pray 
God that it may be extensively beneficial.” Again says he: 
44 Since you were pleased to read me some chapters of the 4 Rise 
and Progress,’ I am the more zealous for its speedy conclusion and 
publication, and beg you would not suffer any other matters to 
divert your attention, since I question whether you can do anything 
more necessary.” 


ISAAC WATTS. 


115 


December 14th, he writes as follows:—“I thank you that your 
heart is so much set upon the book I recommended you to under¬ 
take. I long for it, as I hope it will be a book of great usefulness, 
and shall be glad to see the first appearance of it; and hope that 
by that time I shall be able to read a little more. 1 thank God I 
was in the pulpit last Lord’s day, though for only thirty-two minutes, 
which almost overset me, so that my capacities of that kind still 
run exceedingly low : may they be increased through your prayers, 
if God please to hear and answer them !” 

“Feb. 24, 1743. That day on which I sent my last letter to 
you, I was seized with something of a paralytic disorder, which, 
though it soon went off, has left various disorders behind it, so that 
1 was confined to my chamber till this day.” 

Some of the latter days of Dr. Watts were sadly beclouded by 
mental depression. At times, his nervousness was very great, 
though stories of it told by anxious friends, or by those who 
delighted in idle gossip, were grossly exaggerated. Certain specu¬ 
lations on theological points—especially the mysterious subject of 
the Trinity, deviating from the orthodox line, yet by no means 
such as to render his faith in the clearly revealed facts and doctrines 
of the gospel at all questionable—had raised in some minds suspi¬ 
cions injurious to I)r. Watts’s theological character; a dishonour to 
his name, which certain of his injudicious admirers sought to remove 
by circulating the report, that he was labouring under mental 
aberration, and not responsible for his opinions. It appears, 
however, from the testimony of those who knew him best, that 
though dejected and absent—loving loneliness and silence, losing 
interest in things and persons once most dear, enfeebled in action, 
in short, unfitted for work—he never was in a state that could with 
propriety be termed, in the customary meaning of it, one of mental 
derangement. Besides physical and nervous debility, he was 
oppressed by certain family trials. He had unworthy relatives, 


11(3 


SHADES AND ECHOES OF OLD LONDON. 


who from selfishness and spite assailed his character; a circumstance 
which, as it never affected his general reputation, may here be left 
in the oblivion it deserves, except as it may be noticed with a 
passing glance among the tribulations of this eminent servant 
of God. Doddridge makes allusion to Watts’s depression and 
absence of mind, and mentions a visit in which he was greatly 
pained by his friend’s appearance and manner. Yet, we have on 
record an account of an interview between the two divines, not long 
before the death of the elder, which would seem to indicate gleams 
of cheerfulness. 

The Rev. Samuel Lavington, of Bideford, a man of congenial 
spirit, and one who ever venerated the memory of both, happened 
to be present, in the freshness of his youth, listening with intense 
delight to the interesting colloquy of men so famous in Israel ; 
and he was wont to relate, in advanced life, when talking of the 
days of “ auld lang syne,” the story of this parting scene. They 
supped at Mrs. Abney’s house, at Stoke Newington, in company 
with Dr. Gibbons. Much cheerful conversation passed between 
them; and the poet pleasantly related to the company how he had 
been imposed upon by certain persons who had tasted of his bounty, 
and now, after the death of some of his pensioners, the relatives 
actually continued, in the names of the deceased, as if they had been 
living, to claim and receive his accustomed gratuities. The narra¬ 
tive, one would imagine, did not fail to divert the amiable Dod- 
ridge, who had himself so often, in various ways, been victimized 
by designing knaves ; and if he did not on the occasion crown the 
stories of his friend with similar ones relating to himself, we could 
almost answer for it that this was not because he was unable. 
Supper over, the venerable bard, oppressed by his infirmities, rose 
from his chair to retire to his chamber, when Doddridge rose and 
followed him to the door, in an attitude expressive of ardent attach¬ 
ment and veneration, stretching out his arms as if (to use Mr. 


ISAAC WATTS. 


117 


Lavington’s language, who, when he told the story, suited the 
action to the words) Elisha was endeavouring to catch the mantle 
of the ascending prophet. 

This little incident was related to us in writing by the Rev. 
Mr. Rooker, late of Tavistock and Plymouth, who also mentioned a 
pleasant circumstance communicated to him by a friend of the 
Abney family; namely, that Dr. Watts was greatly beloved by the 
domestics, and that they were wont to put themselves in the way 
of the venerable sojourner under their mistress’s roof, that they 
might receive marks of approval and kindness. His amiableness 
must have been very great, and it attached to him a circle of 
friends, many of whom had been drawn into that sphere by the 
brightness of his literary reputation, and the beneficial perusal of 
his works. Persons of high rank and distinction were of the 
number—members of aristocratic houses, and officers of state. We 
read of the Right Honourable Mr. Onslow, Speaker of the House 
of Commons, going in his coach to Newington, taking with him 
some of Watts’ ministerial friends to have converse witli the saint¬ 
like man, before his translation to a world where all are saints. 
They had a hallowed interview, and after the death of Dr. Watts, 
the Speaker, in conversation with Dr. Gibbons, said that in him he 
saw a man of God, adding, “ My soul where his now is !”* 

Nervous depression generally produces either a low state of 
spiritual sensibility, or intense spiritual sorrow, bordering on, if not 
reaching to, despair. But Watts retained throughout his malady 
an interest in the gospel, and a good hope through grace. He was 
ever a man full of faith and of the Holv Ghost. “ I never could 
discover,” says Dr. Gibbons, “ though I was frequently with him, 
the least shadow of a doubt as to his future everlasting happiness, 
or anything that looked like an unwillingness to die. How have I 
known him recite, with self-application, those words, ‘ Ye hare 

* Milner’s “ Life and Times of Watts.” 


118 


SHADES AND ECHOES OF OLD LONDON. 


need of patience, that after ye have done the will of God, ye may 
receive the promise!’ And how have I heard him, upon leaving 
the family after supper, and withdrawing to rest, declare with the 
sweetest composure that if his Master were to say to him he had 
no more work for him to do, he should be glad to be dismissed that 
night! He discoursed much of his dependence upon the atoning 
sacrifice of Christ; and his trust in God, through the Mediator, 
remained unshaken to the last. ‘I should be glad,’ he said, ‘to 
read more, yet not in order to be confirmed more in the truth of the 
Christian religion, or in the truth of its promises ; for I believe 
them enough to venture an eternity on them.’ 

“ When he was almost worn out by his infirmities, he observed, 
in conversation with a friend, that he remembered an aged minister 
used to say that the most learned and knowing Christians, when 
they come to die, have only the same plain promises of the gospel 
for their support as the common and unlearned; ‘ and so,’ said he, 

‘ 1 find it. It is the plain promises that do not require much 
labour and pains to understand them; for I can do nothing now 
but look into my Bible for some promise to support me, and live 
upon that.’ ” 

Dr. Gibbons, in one of his visits, found him exceedingly weak 
and 1ow t , the lamp of life very feebly glimmering in its last 
decay ; but he was still in the perfect possession of his understand¬ 
ing. He said, in answer to the question whether he had any pain, 
that he had none; and in reply to inquiries about his soul, that 
all was comfortable, confessing that to be a great mercy. Dr. 
Stennett informs us, that his discourse was most heavenly ; that he 
particularly spoke of his dependence on Christ, declaring that to 
part with Christ was to part with all hope. 

He had a faithful and loving attendant, of the name of Parker, 
who piously noted down his master’s dying sayings. “I would be 
waiting to see what God will do with me. It is good to say, as 


ISAAC WATTS. 


119 


Mr. Baxter, 4 What, when, and where God pleases.’ If God should 
raise me up again, I may finish some of my papers, or God can 
make use of me to save a soul, and that will be worth living for. 
If God has no more service for me to do, through grace 1 am ready. 
It is a great mercy to me that I have no manner of fear or dread 
of death. I could, if God please, lay my head back, and die 
without terror this afternoon or night. My chief supports are from 
my view of eternal things, and the interest I have in them. I 
trust all my sins are pardoned, through the blood of Christ. 1 
have no fear of dying: it would be my greatest comfort to lie down 
and sleep, and wake no more.” 

The faithful servant wrote, on the 24th of November, to Mr. 
Enoch Watts of Southampton, as the life of his brother was now 
fast ebbing away— 44 1 said to him this morning that he had taught 
us how to live, and was now teaching us how to die, by his patience 
and composure ; for he has been remarkably in this frame for 
several days past. He replied, 4 Yes.’ I told him I hoped he 
experienced the comfort of these words, 4 1 will never leave thee, 
nor forsake thee.’ He answered, 4 1 do.’ The ease of body and 
calmness of mind which he enjoys is a great mercy to him and to 
us. His sick-chamber has nothing terrifying in it.” On the 26th 
the looked-for announcement was despatched to Southampton : 
44 At length the fatal news is come. The spirit of the good man, 
my dear master, took its flight from the body to worlds unseen 
and joys unknown, yesterday in the afternoon, without a struggle 
or a groan. My Lady Abney and Miss Abney are supported as 
well as we can reasonably expect. It is a house of mourning and 
tears. For I have told you before now that we all attended upon 
him and served him from a principle of love and esteem. May 
God forgive us all, that we have improved no more by him while 
we enjoyed him!” 

Dr. Watts was buried in Bunhill-fields on the 5tli of December, 


120 


SHADES AND ECHOES OF OLD LONDON. 


1748, his funeral being attended, at his own desire, by two 
Independent ministers, two Presbyterian, and two Baptist. 

Dr. Watts was as far removed from sectarianism as a man could 
be. The spirit of his works and life has awakened deep and lasting 
sympathy in the souls of multitudes; and, without noting other 
proofs of the esteem in which his name is held by all parties, we 
may mention that very recently a meeting was held in his native 
town of Southampton to determine on a monument to his memory, 
when the chair was occupied by a dignitary of the Establishment, 
and a numerous body of clergymen vied with each other in doing 
honour to the most distinguished hymnologist of Christendom. 

To use the words of an article in the “ North British Review,” 
from which we have before made a quotation : “ Without conceal¬ 
ing the peculiar doctrines of the gospel, without losing the fervour 
of his personal devotion, he gained for that gospel the homage of 
genius and intelligence; and, like the king of Israel, he touched 
his harp so skilfully that many who hardly understood the words 
were melted by the tune. Without surrendering his right of 
private judgment, without abjuring his love of natural and artistic 
beauty, he showed his preference for moral excellence, his intense 
conviction of ‘the truth as it is in Jesus.’ And now, in his well- 
arranged and tasteful study, decorated by his own pencil, a lute 
and a telescope on the same table with his Bible, he seems to stand 
before us, a treatise on logic in one hand, and a volume of ‘ hymns 
and spiritual songs ’ in the other, asserting the harmony of faith 
and reason, and pleading for religion and refinement in firm and 
stable union. And as far as the approval of the Most High can be 
gathered from events, or from its reflection in the conscience of 
mankind, the Master has said, ‘Well done, good and faithful 
servant.’ Without trimming, without temporising, he was ‘quiet,’ 
and without bustle; without boasting or parade, he did ‘ his own 
business,’ the work that God had given him. And now no church 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


121 


repudiates him: Nonconformity cannot monopolize him. His 
eulogium is pronounced by Samuel Johnson and Robert Southey, 
as well as Josiah Conder; and whilst his monument looks down on 
Dissenting graves in Abney Park, his effigy reposes beneath the 
consecrated roof of Westminster Abbey ; and, which is far better, 
next Lord’s day, the name which is above every name will be sung 
m fanes where princes worship and prelates minister, as well as in 
barns where mechanics pray and ragged scholars say, Amen, in 
words for which all alike must thank his hallowed genius; and it 
will only be some curious student of hymnology who will recollect 
that Isaac Watts is the Asaph of each choir, the leader of each 
company.” 


IX. OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 

Perhaps no face in London a hundred and odd years ago, 
is now so familiar to the reader, as that of Oliver Goldsmith. 
Not that portraits of him are more numerous than of some 
other distinguished men among his contemporaries; but there 
is that in the character of the man’s features and counte¬ 
nance, which once seen, is not soon forgotten. He was just the 
person to strike the attention of people as he walked along the 
streets, and to furnish a study for every peripatetic physiognomist 
he met with. The broad cheeks, large forehead, thick lips, round 
nose, dark brow, and bright eyes of the poet, formed a visage 
unusually plain, approaching to the positively ugly, and which 
was saved from being altogether so only by the expression it wore 
of unusual good-nature. But his portraits, in general, give no idea 
of his dress. A sort of student’s robe envelopes his shoulders, 
according to the idea of Goldsmith in our boyhood, received from 



122 


SHADES AND ECHOES OF OLD LONDON. 


the picture of him prefixed to his “ History of England,” and other 
books. A very differently attired personage, however, was the real 
Oliver, as commonly seen by the Londoners little over a century 
since. No man ever so delighted in velvet and gold lace. His 
“ bloom-coloured coat ” figures in all his biographies, together with 
the story of the wag who met him marching along the Strand with 
bag-wig and sword, and exclaimed, “ Look at that fly with a long- 
pin stuck through it.” 

Poor Goldsmith! Vanity and good-nature lay obviously enough 
on the surface of his character; the latter, in spite of the former, 
ever saving him from contempt, but seldom from derision. He was 
a creature of the most generous impulses, and would give away his 
last shilling; but beneficence with him was the result of an 
unreasoning instinct, rather than of thoughtful and conscientious 
principle. Such generosity as Goldsmith often displayed may lie 
close beside a fondly cherished selfishness. It involves not the self- 
denial which grows out of a calm strong will, cultured by moral 
convictions and religious faith. True goodness is ever associated 
with more or less of strength. Weakness is not the companion 
of virtue. Tried by Christianity—the only sound standard of 
judgment which in such cases we can recognise—characters like 
Goldsmith must bring down censure, while they awaken sorrow. 
The deficiency, or rather absence, of principle throughout his life, 
deprives it altogether of the aspect of a battle with the world and 
sin, as.every good man’s life must be. “It has been questioned,” 
remarks one of his biographers, “whether he really had any 
religious feeling.” We should not raise the question. Religious 
feeling, no doubt he had; though even that does not seem to have 
been intense. But of religious faith, which is another thing—by 
which we mean the realization of Divine truths, especially those 
revealed in the gospel—we have, alas! no evidence in his works or 
memoirs. We can admire his delicate genius and appreciate his 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


123 


generous acts ; but we feel it our duty, and we discharge it with 
pain, to indicate his moral and religious deficiencies. 

As Goldsmith was a poet, historian, and even philosopher, 
intimately connected with London in the old time, we should be 
chargeable with a great omission if we did not notice him among 
the shades of the departed ones. Indeed, we feel it nothing less 
than a tribute of gratitude here to inscribe his name, and portray 
the scenes with which he was associated ; for how much do we owe 
of instruction and pleasure to his lively prose and beautifully simple 
verse! He was one of the companions of our childhood, fondly 
cherished, and as an author we love him still; though matured 
understanding and reflection lead us to speak discriminatingly of 
his character as a man. 

We find Goldsmith in London for the first time, wandering 
about the streets on a miserable February night, with only a few 
halfpence in his pocket. Disappointing his friends’ expectations, 
he had been leading a very unsettled and vagrant sort of life, and 
had just arrived in the metropolis from his continental journeyings, 
in which his flute had been his chief resource and best friend. 
“ The clock had just struck two: what a gloom hangs all around! 
no sound is heard but of the chiming clock, or the distant watch¬ 
dog ! How few appear in those streets which but a few hours ago 
were crowded! But who are those who make the streets their 
couch, and find a short repose from wretchedness at the doors oi 
the opulent? They are strangers, wanderers, and orphans, whose 
circumstances are too humble to expect redress, and whose distresses 
are too great even for pity. Some are without the covering even 
of rags, and others emaciated with disease: the world has dis¬ 
claimed them, society turns its back upon their distress, and has 
given them up to nakedness and hunger. Those poor shivering 
females have seen happier days, and been flattered into beauty. 
They are now turned out to meet the severity of winter; perhaps 


124 


SHADES AND ECHOES OF OLD LONDON. 


now lying at the doors of their betrayers, they sue to wretches 
whose hearts are insensible, or debauchees who may curse but not 
relieve them.” So wrote Goldsmith years afterwards, and doubt¬ 
less, in this graphic sketch, we have a picture of what he saw the 
night in question. Houseless wanderers there are still at such an 
hour—people who, to use a significant expression, have only the 
key of the street; but better times have come since Goldsmith’s 
days, and the friendly lodging-house, which his kind heart for the 
sake of others would have well approved, and, we fancy, would 
have led him to advocate with a ready pen, now throws open its 
door to give shelter and welcome, with the hallowing influence of 
an evening prayer, to many a miserable stranger who, through 
vice, crime, or misfortune, has made shipwreck of home. 

We next catch a wavering glimpse of our friend the poet in a 
chemist’s shop near Fish-street-hill, where he assists in the labor¬ 
atory ; and then we find him practising medicine for himself, in a 
small way, somewhere in Bankside, Southwark. His strong passion 
for dress exhibits itself in the second-hand suit of green and gold, 
which makes him a rather conspicuous personage in the thorough¬ 
fares of the Borough ; while a want of neatness, or of money to pay 
the washerwoman, is clearly betrayed in his shirt and neckcloth, now 
of a fortnight’s wear. But contentment or pride provided a cover¬ 
ing for his poverty, and he told a friend that u he was practising 
physic and doing very well.” The green suit was afterwards 
changed for a black one, with a patch on the left breast, which he 
ingeniously concealed by holding up his cocked hat when he was 
conversing with his patients. A polite person once sought to 
relieve him from this apparent incumbrance, “which only made 
him press it more devoutly to his heart.” 

Tired of practice, or disappointed of success, he soon exchanged 
the phial for the ferule, and prescriptions for spelling-books. 
Goldsmith came out in the character of a schoolmaster’s assistant 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


125 


at Peckham, a kind of employment to which he had been used 
before; and at the table of Dr. Milner—for so the master of the 
school was named—he became acquainted with Smollett, who first 
directed him to literature as a means of subsistence, by employing 
him as a contributor to the “ Monthly Review.” Subsequently, 
physic and literature were combined to eke out a maintenance, 
and, in the double capacity of doctor and author, he presents 
himself to our notice in a wretched lodging by Salisbury-square, 
Fleet-street. Here we have a peep into the life of a poor literary 
man of the eighteenth century, to which parallels are numerous 
enough in the nineteenth. Leaving his lodgings, he kept his 
appointments at some house of call; the Temple Exchange Coffee¬ 
house, Temple Bar, was his most favoured resort. There, indeed, 
was his ostensible abode ; and the people who saw him by day had 
little idea of the forlorn lodging where he spent his nights. 

We must now visit a spot with which his name is more distinctly 
associated than with any of those we have thus hastily mentioned. 
Modern improvements have wrought marvellous changes in what 
used to be Fleet Market. The market is gone, or rather transferred 
out of sight to the neighbouring shambles, where it bears the name 
of Farringdon. The prison has totally vanished. The crowded 
scenes of trade, and vice, and infamy, which covered the broad 
space now known as Farringdon-street, have passed away; but 
there still remains a memento of Goldsmith’s times—an outlet not 
far from the north end, on the right hand, which leads up through 
a miserable street of rag and bone shops, adorned with hideous 
black dolls in white frocks, to a steep flight of steps, conducting us 
to a place bearing now the very inappropriate name of Green 
Arbour-court. Once, perhaps, respectable, the tenements now are 
in miserable condition. At the upper end, in a house which was 
pulled down in 1834, Goldsmith was living when he wrote his 
“ Enquiry into the State of Polite Learning in Europe.” 


126 


SHADES AND ECHOES OF OLD LONDON. 


The spot, now covered with waggon offices and stables, is inti¬ 
mately connected with its once remarkable and illustrious tenant, 
from the anecdotes of him while residing there preserved by his 
biographers. Here it was that Percy, the author of the “ Reliques,” 
called upon Goldsmith, and found him in a dirty room, with one 
chair, which he politely relinquished for the use of his visitor, 
while he sat himself down on the window seat during the interview. 
As the conversation proceeded, a gentle tap was heard at the door, 
and a ragged child came in, who dropped a courtesy, and then 
delivered the following message, much, no doubt, to the poet’s 
chagrin: “ Mamma sends her compliments, and begs the favour of 
you to lend her a potful of coals ”—a favour, no doubt, which 
mamma had often conferred on her neighbour. And here, too, 
occurred the generous but improvident transaction so often told 
respecting the author and his landlady. It was Christmas day, and 
Goldsmith was smarting under his recent rejection at the College 
of Surgeons, where he had failed at his examination, when the poor 
woman entered his room with a heart-rending tale. Her husband 
had just been carried off to prison for debt. The man of litera¬ 
ture had no money in his pocket, not enough to buy a Christmas 
dinner; but there hung a new suit of clothes, which in his eyes 
must have been precious indeed. The gratification of the instinc¬ 
tive emotions of pity was to be preferred to the gratification of his 
vanity, at least for a while, and therefore he sent off to the pawn¬ 
broker’s and raised enough to pay the poor man’s debt, and get him 
out of gaol. By the way, Griffiths, the publisher, had become 
surety to the tailor for these clothes, and had also lent Goldsmith 
books to be reviewed. The clothes gone, and no money left, he 
was tempted to raise money on the books too ; so that, when the 
publisher wanted them back, they were not to be obtained. This 
double failure roused the ire of Griffiths, and he wrote a letter 
to the author which pierced his heart. Poor man, he had not 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


127 


learned the lesson, that we must be just before we are generous, and 
that there is little commendable in the generosity which prompts 
us to give away what is not our own. 

Some interesting reminiscences of the poet, while living in Green 
Arbour-court, are preserved by Washington Irving. “An old 
woman,” he says, “ was still living, in 1820, who was a relative of 
the identical landlady whom Goldsmith had relieved by the money 
received from the pawnbroker. She was a child about seven years 
of age at the time that the poet rented his apartment of her 
relative, and used frequently to be at the house in Green Arbour- 
court. She was drawn there, in a great measure, by the • good- 
humoured kindness of Goldsmith, who was always exceedingly fond 
of the society of children. He used to assemble those of the family 
in his room, give them cakes and sweetmeats, and set them dancing 
to the sound of his flute. He was very friendly to those around 
him, and cultivated a kind of intimacy with a watchmaker in the 
court, who possessed much native wit and humour. He passed 
most of the day, however, in his room, and only went out in the 
evenings. His days were, no doubt, devoted to the drudgery of the 
pen, and it would appear that he occasionally found the booksellers 
urgent taskmasters. On one occasion, a visitor was shown up to 
his room, and immediately their voices were heard in high alterca¬ 
tion, and the key was turned within the lock. The landlady, at 
first, was disposed to go to the assistance of her lodger, but a calm 
succeeding, she forbore to interfere. Late in the evening the 
door w T as unlocked, a supper ordered by the visitor from a neigh¬ 
bouring tavern, and Goldsmith and his intrusive guest finished the 
evening in great good-humour. It was probably his old taskmaster 
Griffiths, whose press might have been waiting, and who found no 
other mode of getting a stipulated task from Goldsmith than by 
locking him in, and staying by him till it was finished.” 

The scene now shifts to Wine Office-coui t, Fleet-street, and 


128 


SHADES AND ECHOES OF OLD LONDON. 


there we follow our poet. He now resided with an acquaint¬ 
ance or relation of Newberry, a famous publisher of books for 
children. He wrote much for that kindly person, and found 
probably a better patron and paymaster than Mr. Griffiths—for 
Goldsmith’s circumstances were in a decidedly improved condition 
after he left Green Arbour-court; yet for his former landlady he 
seems to have retained a benevolent regard, as we are informed 
“that he often supplied her with food from his own table, and 
visited her frequently with the sole purpose to be kind to her.” 
A debating club, called the Robin Hood, used to meet in those 
days somewhere near Temple Bar; and there, at the conventions of 
the men of wit and letters, with others who had pretensions to 
neither, Goldsmith made his appearance. He was introduced for 
the first time by an Irish acquaintance of the name of Derry. It 
happened that the chair was that evening occupied by a baker, 
who seemed mightily elated with an idea of his own importance. 
“ This,” said Goldsmith, “ must be the Lord Chancellor at least.” 
“ No, no,” replied his companion, “ he is only master of the rolls.” 

There is a building in Islington closely connected with Oliver 
Goldsmith. Here, again, we have to note the ravages of pic¬ 
turesque relics carried on by the steady march of utilitarian 
improvement. There lies before us an engraving of Canonburv 
House as it was fifty years ago, with a large piece of water flowing 
in front, with green-bordered banks, and a line of rustic paling. 
Squares and streets have risen up in close contiguity to this ancient 
edifice, and changed the face and fashion of the whole vicinity, 
blotting out all its rustic accompaniments and destroying its 
country views. But the old watch-tower remains, built in with 
modern dwellings. The bricks are black with age, the door retains 
an antique look, and the little windows speak of times long gone 
by. Some writers relate that Goldsmith resided here. Sir John 
Hawkins, his biographer, states that Newberry, the publisher, had 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


129 


apartments in the house; and that the poet there concealed himself 
from his creditors. It is probable that it was only an occasional 
and temporary abode; but it has linked itself with his name, by 
the report that in one of the rooms, still preserved, Goldsmith 
wrote his “ Deserted Village.” 

Washington Irving describes the room as a relic of the original 
style of the castle, with panelled ornaments and gothic windows. 
Our attempt to verify his description was fruitless, as the present 
inhabitant of the classic dwelling would not admit us to the interior, 
sensible, no doubt, of the annoyance attendant upon allowing it to 
remain a show-house, when what Irving relates in the person of his 
hero, in the “ Tales of a Traveller,” would often occur. “ In the 
midst of a vein of thought, or a moment of literary inspiration, I 
was interrupted, and all my ideas put to flight, by my intolerable 
landlady tapping at the door, and asking me if I would ‘ just please 
to let a lady and a gentleman come in and take a look at Mr. 
Goldsmith’s room.’ ” Perhaps the distinguished American is here 
actually giving his own experience, and we are to add him to the 
celebrities of Canonbury Tower—a man who, for delicacy of genius, 
is not unlike the poet he celebrates. 

Hone, in his “Every-day Book,” gives a further account of the 
room, of which, from want of personal inspection, we are glad to 
avail ourselves. The occupant in his time was but one generation 
removed from a relative who lived there when Goldsmith was a 
lodger. She affirmed that he wrote his “ Deserted Village ” in the 
oak room on the first floor, and slept on a large press bedstead 
placed in the eastern corner. From this room, Mr. Hone informs 
us, “ two small ones for sleeping in have since been separated, by 
the removal of the panelled oak wainscoting from the north-east 
wall, and the cutting of two doors through it, with a partition be¬ 
tween them : and since Goldsmith was here the window on the south 
side has been broken through.” We are not certain whether it was 

F 


130 


SHADES AND ECHOES OF OLD LONDON. 


while tarrying in Islington that Goldsmith wrote that pleasant “ His¬ 
tory of England,” the most pleasant of our old school-books, though, 
by the way, not always conveying just views of our country’s heroes 
and vicissitudes: at any rate the work is connected with Islington. 
He used to read Hume, Eapin, Carte, and Kennet in a morning, 
and having made a few notes, would ramble out into the fields 
round this neighbourhood, and then return to a temperate dinner 
and cheerful evening, writing off before he went to bed what had 
arranged itself in his mind from his morning studies. The head¬ 
quarters of the poet seem still to have been in Wine Office-court, 
and there it was that Johnson found him, driven to extremities by 
his landlady’s application for rent, and relieved him from difficulty, 
by taking a MS. Goldsmith had just written, and selling it to a 
publisher for sixty pounds. It was no other than the famous 
“Vicar of Wakefield.” “I brought Goldsmith the money,” says 
the old king of critics, “ and he discharged his rent, not without 
rating his landlady in a high tone for having used him so ill.” 

The scene changes. We must walk to the Temple, to chambers 
on the library staircase, and there we find the poet “ a kind of 
inmate with Jeff, the butler of the society.” The apartments 
appear to have been of a very humble sort; but then there were 
the Temple Gardens and the river Thames at hand, which, in the 
estimation of such a man as Goldsmith, must have made up for 
many deficiencies. His biography takes us, during his abode there, 
to a very different place under very amusing circumstances, which 
we cannot do better than relate in his own words: “ Having 
received an invitation to wait upon the Earl of Northumberland,” 
he says, “ I dressed myself in the best manner I could, and after 
studying some compliments I thought necessary on such an occa¬ 
sion, proceeded to Northumberland House, and acquainted the 
servants that I had particular business with the duke. They 
showed me into an antechamber, where, after waiting some time, a 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


131 


gentleman very elegantly dressed made his appearance. Taking 
him for the duke, I delivered all the fine things I had composed in 
order to compliment him on the honour he had done me: when, to 
my great astonishment, he told me I had mistaken him for his master, 
who would see me immediately. At that instant the duke came 
into the apartment, and I was so confounded on the occasion, that I 
wanted words barely sufficient to express the sense I entertained of 
the duke’s politeness, and went away exceedingly chagrined at the 
blunder I had committed.” Poor bashful man, by no means 
learned in the ways of this world ! Sir John Hawkins, a man of a 
different stamp, who gives a further account of the interview 
between the author and the duke, blames the former for a want of 
dexterity in pushing his own interests. Northumberland was just 
going to Ireland as Lord Lieutenant, and he told Goldsmith he 
should be glad to do him a kindness. The visitor, much more from 
generosity than from confusion, commended his brother, a poor 
clergyman, to his grace’s patronage: but sought nothing for 
himself. 

Goldsmith gets five hundred pounds for his “ Good-natured 
Man,” and forthwith his domicile bears witness to his altered 
fortune. “ Jeff the butler’s rooms ” are exchanged for the second 
floor of No. 2, Brick Court, Temple, overlooking the pleasant garden 
on the river bank. The spendthrift gives 4:001. for the lease, and 
squanders the rest upon splendid carpets and furniture, a suit of 
“ Tyrian bloom, satin-grain ” and another “ lined with silk and 
furnished with gold buttons.” He invites Johnson, Reynolds, 
Percy, and Bickerstaff to gay entertainments; and it is amusing to 
learn that the occupant of the ground floor is no other than the 
great lawyer Blackstone, who in his erudite studies, out of which 
grow his far-famed “ Commentaries on the Laws of England,” sadly 
complains of the racket made overhead by neighbour Goldsmith’s 
company/ There they are positively playing at blind man’s buff! 


132 


SHADES AND ECHOES OF OLD LONDON. 


Did Johnson join ? the lexicographer upstairs lumbering about 
like a big boy: the jurist below, poring over his mouldy books, 
and grumbling at the levity and noise of such a royster! We have 
here a curious pair of pictures in our literary history. Goldsmith, 
like a true poet, loved the country, and often made what he called a 
shoemaker’s holiday. A few friends were invited to a good break¬ 
fast on a summer’s morning, after which they went off to Blackheath, 
Wandsworth, or some other suburban village, to revel together 
among green trees and yellow fields, and to drink in the delicious 
liquid air floating under the blue skies. We fancy the poet, with 
dusty feet, and with a large nosegay stuck in his bosom, coming 
back at night, through the crowded street, to his sombre lodgings 
in Brick-court; his memory lighted up with pleasant images 
which haunt him in his dreams, and come forth with helpful minis¬ 
tration when the next day he sits down to write an essay or a lay. 
Besides other works, Goldsmith wrote his “ History of Rome ” in 
the Temple. Among “ the wits, lawyers, and legal students ” who 
associated with Goldsmith in his half-cloistered retreat, was Judge 
Day, of the Irish bench, who often would talk of the poet’s kind¬ 
ness to him and Grattan. “I was just arrived from college,” 
said he, “ full freighted with academic gleanings ; and our author 
did not disdain to receive from me some opinions and thoughts 
towards his Greek and Roman histories. Being then a young 
man, I felt much flattered by the notice of so celebrated a person. 
He took great delight in the conversation of Grattan, whose 
brilliancy in the morning of life furnished full earnest of the 
unrivalled splendour which swelled his meridian; and finding 
us dwelling together in Essex-court, near himself, where he fre¬ 
quently visited my immortal friend, his warm heart became 
naturally prepossessed towards the associate of one whom he so 
much admired.” The judge goes on, as Irving tells us, to give 
a picture of Goldsmith’s social habits : he frequented much the 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


133 


Grecian coffee-house, then the favourite resort of Irish and Lanca¬ 
shire templars: he delighted in collecting his friends around him 
at evening parties in his chambers, where he entertained them with 
a cordial and unostentatious hospitality. 

Several London taverns are associated with Goldsmith, and among 
the rest, one in Dean-street, kept by a singer of the name of Roberts. 
We mention that spot, because it was there that a conversation took 
place between Goldsmith and Johnson, which supplied some wit, 
often imitated since. The sage philosopher was discussing some 
kidneys with immense satisfaction, observing as he swallowed the 
savoury morsels, “ These are pretty little things ; but a man must 
eat a great many of them before he is filled.” “ Ay; but how 
many of them,” asked the merry poet, with affected simplicity, 
“would reach to the moon?” “To the moon! Ah, sir, that I 
fear exceeds your calculation.” “Not at all, sir; I think I could 
tell.” “ Pray then, sir, let me hear.” “ Why, sir, one ; if it were 
long enough.” Johnson growled for a time at finding himself 
caught in such a trite schoolboy trap. “Well, sir,” he said at 
length, “ I have deserved it. I should not have provoked so foolish 
an answer by so foolish a question.” 

Ranelagh Gardens, then the resort of the fashionable, offered 
strong attractions to the pleasure-loving Goldsmith; and doubtless 
often when reflecting on his visits, he felt how true were Johnson’s 
words in one of his grave moods: “ Alas, sir, these are only strug¬ 
gles for happiness. When I first entered Ranelagh, it gave an 
expansion and gay sensation to my mind, such as I never ex¬ 
perienced anywhere else. But as Xerxes wept when he viewed 
his immense army, and considered that not one of that great 
multitude would be alive a hundred years afterwards, so it went 
to my heart to consider that there was not one in all that brilliant 
circle that was not afraid to go home and think.” 

At last, Goldsmith had to go home and die. He expired in his 


134 SHADES AND ECHOES OF OLD LONDON. 

room at the Temple, on the 4th of April, in his forty-sixth year. 
Poor women, whom he had generously relieved, stood sobbing outside 
the door in which lay the poet’s corpse : but we cannot forget that 
there were others who mourned his removal for a very different 
reason. “ Of poor Goldsmith,” said Johnson, in a letter to Boswell, 
“ there is little to be told more than the papers have made public. 
He died of a fever, made, I am afraid, more violent by uneasiness 
of mind. His debts began to be heavy, and all his resources were 
exhausted. Sir Joshua Reynolds is of opinion that he owed no less 
than two thousand pounds.” He was buried in the ground of the 
Temple church; and as we think of the poet’s dust so near us, 
when we are passing along Fleet-street, there come mingled with 
his memory solemn thoughts of the high .ends of human life which 
he so sadly missed, or rather never seemed to aim at. We cannot 
write poems or essays like him whose shade we have just met, 
and to whose genius we do honour; but, with very humble talents, 
we may serve our generation according to the will of God. Neither 
literary nor any other form of worldly fame may guard our grave 
and write our epitaph; but a better immortality awaits us if we be 
numbered among those whom God counts righteous through faith 
in his Son. 

“ Only the actions of the just 
Smell sweet, and blossom in the dust.” 


X. SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS. 

The history of English art presents a remarkable contrast to the 
history of English literature. Upon the dawn of the revival of 
letters, our Chaucer rose in resplendent beauty to vie with the 
Italian Boccaccio. The age of Camoens and Tasso, was also 
the age of Spenser, Shakspeare, and Jonson. While Moliere, 



SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS. 


135 


Corneille, and Eacine were writing tlieir comedies, Bacon was laying 
the foundations of true philosophy, Milton was creating his grand 
epics, and Dryden was pouring out his “ full resounding ” lines. 
But where, during that period, were the masters of British Art ? 
There must indeed have been within our shores men of architec¬ 
tural genius to rear the magnificent edifices of the later mediaeval 
age, the remains of which ever awaken admiration, even in unculti¬ 
vated minds; but, after the decline and fall of the spirit of gothic 
architecture, no man appeared in England worthy of being esteemed 
a master in the art of building, till Sir Christopher Wren began to 
cultivate a taste for Italian forms and methods of construction. 
But he shines in his own department in solitary grandeur. Sculp¬ 
ture suffered a worse fate. With the exception of some beautiful 
mediaeval statues by unknown hands, which still adorn our 
cathedrals, no English work of merit proceeded from the chisel 
through long centuries. No English name of note appears in the 
annals of statuary before the eighteenth century. Painting, so far 
as native talent is concerned, was scarcely better. George Jamie¬ 
son, the Scottish Vandyke as he is called, who commenced his 
career in Edinburgh in 1628, in a measure rescues the northern 
part of our isle from the imputation of utter sterility of artistic 
taste and skill; but no painter of indigenous growth appeared on 
this side the Tweed worthy of being ranked with him, till a much 
later period. The names and works of Holbein, Eubens, Vandyke, 
Lely, and Sir Godfrey Kneller, if we may associate such unequal 
names and works, became successively celebrated enough in 
England, during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries; but 
these were all foreign. No native artist of commanding power 
appeared till the following century. It is singular that the 
eighteenth century, the age of a perfect bathos in architecture, and 
during the latter half by no means pre-eminent in literature, should 
have witnessed the rise of English sculpture and painting. 


136 


SHADES AND ECHOES OF OLD LONDON. 


Leicester Fields, as they were once called, and the region round 
about, contained the nursery of the latter beautiful art; and the 
facts just dotted down very naturally occur to us, as we walk 
through that bustling neighbourhood, so very unpicturesque and 
inartistic in appearance. Hogarth—who in so striking and original 
a manner depicted the manners of his age, performing with his 
pencil what Chaucer accomplished with his pen, and leading the 
way in English painting as the other did in English poetry— 
resided on the east side of the square, in a house which stood upon 
the site of the Sabloniere hotel. It bore the sign of the Golden 
Head, cut by the whimsical artist himself out of pieces of cork, and 
then glued together. A story is told by Cole, in his curious collection 
of scraps, illustrative alike of the painter and the times in which 

A 

he lived. “ When I sat to Hogarth, the custom of giving vails to 
servants was not discontinued. On taking leave of the painter at 
the door, I offered his servant a small gratuity, but the man very 
politely refused it, telling me it would be as much as the loss of 
his place if his master knew it. This was so uncommon and liberal, 
in a man of Hogarth’s profession at that time of day, that it struck 
me, as nothing of the kind had happened to me before.” 

But the shade of another name pertaining to the history of the 
same art—less original, perhaps, but in some respects more illus¬ 
trious—meets us in the commencement of his career not far from 
Leicester Fields, and then fixes itself within a house which still 
exists on the west side. To some reminiscences of that dis¬ 
tinguished man, preserved by admiring biographers, this paper is 
devoted. 

In Great Queen-street there are two houses, now numbered 55 
and 56, which were originally one. There, in the year 1740, lived 
Thomas Hudson, at that time a painter of great note; and there, 
in the October of that year, was Joshua Reynolds placed under 
him, as a pupil for instruction in an art for which he had already 


SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS. 


137 


given unequivocal proofs of a distinguished taste. We see the 
shade of the youth, destined to become so illustrious a man, of 
middling stature, florid complexion, regular but rather blunt 
features, a calm intelligent eye, pleasing aspect, and graceful, 
easy manners. Industry is one of his leading characteristics, and 
he works hard in copying the drawings of Guercino; and so 
skilfully are these copies executed, that many mistake and preserve 
them as originals. In this method of instruction, adopted by 
Hudson, we detect his own want of a scientific acquaintance with 
the principles of his art, and recognise one reason why his pupil 
was ever deficient in the knowledge of the anatomy of form—a 
serious drawback on an artist’s power ; but at the same time Rey¬ 
nolds found in it, no doubt, a discipline highly favourable to the 
culture of a correct eye, a free hand, and an easy touch—attainments 
in which he has had few equals. The instructor soon became jealous 
of the pupil; and the latter had to quit Great Queen-street, and 
remove for a while to lodge with his uncle in the Temple, whence 
he speedily repaired to Devonshire, his native county. In these 
movements we cannot follow him; much less can we accompany 
him to Italy, where he spent some time in studying, with critical 
acumen and most refined taste, the works of the most celebrated 
masters. To his career in London we must confine ourselves; and 
this, so far as our knowledge of him extends, will keep us chiefly in 
the neighbourhood already indicated. 

Before, however, we pass over his connection with Hudson,.we 
may relate a curious circumstance mentioned by Northcote, as 
illustrative of the low state of art as cultivated by the master under 
whom Reynolds received his first lessons, and of the mechanical 
habits of his early career. Hudson, to get over the critical difficulty 
of well-disposing the hands in a portrait, used to tuck one in the 
waistcoat, and hide the other by putting a hat under the arm. Rey¬ 
nolds caught the trick, and so natural did it come to him, that it is 

f 2 


138 


SHADES AND ECHOES OF OLD LONDON. 


positively stated, when he was requested to paint some one with a 
hat on, he took care to put a hat under the arm too. Nor can we 
forget another story connected with Reynolds’ youthful days under 
Hudson’s tutorship. He was once sent by his master to an auction, 
where he observed a great bustle by the door. He soon heard the 
name of Mr. Pope whispered. Everybody drew back as the poet 
entered, and formed a line on each side, all being eager to shake 
hands with him as he passed. Reynolds was behind ; but as he was 
reaching under another person’s arm to catch the coveted honour, 
Pope immediately accepted the grasp of the young artist, little think¬ 
ing of the future importance of the hand he then received in his own. 
Amidst that crowd of departed shadows, it is interesting to notice two 
illustrious ones, brought by accident into,contiguity ; and it is also 
curious to see how great was the popularity of the bard, and how 
easily the multitude obtained his friendly notice. 

At the end of the year 1752, we find Reynolds established as an 
artist in a house in St. Martin’s-lane, about opposite to May’s- 
buildings; his youngest sister Fanny being installed as house¬ 
keeper. “ He found at first such opposition as genius is commonly 
doomed to meet with, and does not always overcome. The bold¬ 
ness of his attempts, the freedom of his conceptions, and the 
brilliancy of his colouring, were considered as innovations upon the 
established and orthodox system of portrait manufacture. The 
artists raised their voices first; and of these, Hudson, who had 
just returned from Rome, was loudest.” The originality of Reynolds’s 
efforts, however, could not fail to attract public attention, which 
was speedily followed by public favour. A picture of a Turkish 
boy brought to his studio numerous visitors, and greatly served to 
promote and increase his fame. Reynolds now painted heads for 
ten guineas, half length for twenty, and whole length for forty. 
The rich were smitten with such a desire to have themselves 
represented in the new and tasteful style of the popular painter, 


SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS. 


139 


that they soon added increasing wealth to his increasing celebrity, 
and enabled him to remove to a much more handsome and expensive 
place of abode. He took a large house on the north side of 
Newport-street, No. 5, still used as a picture gallery. 

“ There,” says Northcote, “ the desire of perpetuating the form 
of self-complacency crowded his sitting-room with women who 
wished to be transmitted as angels, and with men who wanted to 
appear as heroes and philosophers.” His work so increased that 
he had to employ assistants, and to raise his terms to twelve, 
twenty-four, and forty-eight guineas, which were the prices his late 
master Hudson received. Afterwards they became fifteen, thirty, 
and sixty guineas ; and before leaving the house in Newport-street 
they had so risen as to begin with twenty. Dr. Johnson related 
that he had heard the artist confess, at this time, that he received 
six sitters a day, and found it necessary to keep a list of those who 
were waiting for vacancies to occur. The lexicographer’s intimacy 
with the great painter commenced soon after his return from Italy, 
and we find them often in company with each other in Newport- 
street. Opposite to the artist there lived the daughters of Admiral 
Cotterell, whom Johnson visited, and there it was that Eeynolds 
first met him. An amusing anecdote is told of them as they were 
one evening together at the house of these ladies. The Duchess of 
Argyle and another lady of rank came in, and engrossed conversa¬ 
tion with the Misses Cotterell—an offence sure to rouse the ire of 
the great critic; so, to mortify the pride of these aristocratic dames, 
by giving them to suppose that they were in very humble company, 
he said to Eeynolds, loud enough to be heard by all in the room, 
“ How much do you think you and I could get a week, if we were 
to work as hard as we could ?” 

Johnson took about an equal fancy to Eeynolds and his sister, 
saying of the former—“There goes a man whom property cannot 
spoiland of the latter, “ that he never saw one but her whc 


140 


SHADES AND ECHOES OF OLD LONDON. 


could bear the application of a microscope to the mind.” No doubt 
the lady greatly supported her influence with the eccentric philoso¬ 
pher by sedulously accommodating herself to his penchant for tea; 
and the story of his parody of Percy’s Ballads, addressed to Miss 
Reynolds, has been often told: 

“ Oil hear it then, my Renny dear, 

Nor hear it with a frown, 

You cannot make the tea so fast 
But I can gulp it down.” 

St. Martin’s-lane and Newport-street only prepared for the still 
palmier days and brighter splendour of Leicester-square. Thither 
Reynolds removed in 1760, there to enjoy for the rest of life such 
a tide of prosperity as rarely rolls its treasures at the feet of genius. 
The building lately occupied by the Western Literary and Scientific 
Institution is the house in which he took up his permanent and 
final abode. Great alterations have been made at the back of the 
edifice by the construction of a theatre for public lectures, but the 
other rooms and the staircase seem to retain their original form, 
and much of their original appearance. Here we can easily picture 
Reynolds in his glory. He is an early riser, but does not breakfast 
till nine. At ten begins the chief business of his art. Step into 
his studio. It is of octagonal form, twenty feet long and sixteen 
broad. The window is high and small, above nine feet from the 
ground, and not more than half the common size. And there, 
raised eighteen inches from the floor, stands the chair for his sitters 
—the famous chair often occupied by beauty, rank, and fashion, 
but above all by genius ; by the author of the “ Ramblerby the 
bard who sung the “ Deserted Village the chair immortalized in 
the painting of the Tragic Muse, not less celebrated than the chair 
of Pindar in the Temple of Delphi. Reynolds is busy examining 
designs and touching uncompleted portraits till eleven, from which 
time till four he is engaged with sitters. Dr. Beattie enters, well 


SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS. 


141 


known as a champion for reason and religion against the fallacies 
of David Hume. .Reynolds is engaged on a fine portrait of the 
Scotch philosopher and divine, with two figures beside him repre¬ 
senting Truth and Falsehood. The easel is just by the little 
window. There stands the artist looking at his subject, and 
holding a pallet, not on his thumb, but by means of a large handle. 
Then turning to the canvass, he lays on with a pencil of nineteen 
inches those colours which glow with so much richness and radiance. 

The hours of toil over, Reynolds takes a ride in his carriage, 
which, as it draws up at the door, you might mistake for the Lord 
Mayor’s coach, so elaborately are the panels adorned with allegorical 
paintings. Richly decorated vehicles are not uncommon, but this 
is decidedly in advance of the fashion. “ It is too showy,” says Miss 
Reynolds. “ What, would you have one like an apothecary’s 
carriage ?” asks her brother, showing that a love of display is one 
of his weaknesses, and that he has a rather vulgar notion of the 
attributes of dignity pertaining to his profession. The coachman, 
however, delights in his master’s taste, for people pay him to get a 
sight of the carriage. At dinner, Sir Joshua is surrounded by the 
elite of intelligence and talent, who, while they share in an elegantly 
furnished repast, are as much gratified by the conversation of their 
host. There is Johnson in his drab attire, and Percy in clerical 
costume, and Burke and Garrick in the fashion of the day; while 
Goldsmith appears in a fashion of his own, exhibiting with much 
satisfaction his “ plum-coloured coat.” Reynolds added to the taste 
of an artist the habits of a gentleman, and tended greatly by the 
purity of his conversation, and the virtue of his character, to 
discourage and repress, as far as his influence extended, those social 
excesses which were usual in his days, especially the earlier ones, 
among all classes. 

Reynolds was now a great man, caressed by the mighty and 
served by the humble; admired by the cultivated, and wondered 


142 


SHADES AND ECHOES OF OLD LONDON. 


at by the vulgar. What Pope had been, he became; and it is 
curious to learn that the youth, who was so anxious to come in 
contact with the illustrious poet, rose to be the object of a similar 
kind of reverence and homage. Northcote, himself a devotee to 
the art of painting, and fired with all the enthusiasm of genius and 
ambition, when a young man attended a public meeting where 
Reynolds was present, when he got as near to him as he could from 
the pressure of the people “ to touch the shirt of his coat,” which he 
accomplished, he says, “ with great satisfaction of mind.” 

But the full prosperity of Reynolds’s mature life never induced 
him to relax in diligent application to the duties of his calling. 
With all the freshness and fire of a gifted mind he associated 
the painstaking of the humblest labourer. It was with him a 
favourite maxim, that without preeminent industry nothing of 
marked excellence can be produced. He had no faith in mere 
genius. So much did he extol the efforts and recommend the 
cultivation of intense and earnest study, that many thought he 
did not sufficiently recognise the difference between one mind and 
another, arising from the fact of varied original endowments. Of 
the capacities and powers with which Providence had endued him 
we can form no other than a very lofty estimate, but doubtless 
it was careful culture which developed them in so much beauty 
and perfection. It might be said of him, almost literally, “ that 
lie passed no day without a line.” He was hardly ever absent from 
his painting room; and he used to say, when for a short space he 
had been visiting his friends, that he returned home like one who 
had been without his natural food; and that, if he made a visit for 
three days, it required three days more on his return, before he 
could recover his usual train of thinking. Diligence of the nature 
which distinguished the life of Reynolds is commendable within 
limits, especially in association with another and higher kind of 
diligence ; but it would appear, at least through the larger portion 


SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS. 


143 


of his history, that artistic diligence in his case was carried to an 
extreme, which entirely absorbed his soul, and left no place for 
incomparably more momentous subjects. Pleasure does not seem 
to have been supreme with him, nor wealth, nor even fame; but 
the culture of his faculties, the elevation and ennobling of his taste. 

Had he been merely an intellectual and social being, that might 
have been consistent. But he had a spiritual nature, which brought 
him into moral and everlasting relations to the Divine Being; he 
had a nature needing Divine renewal, and standing in need of purifi¬ 
cation from sinful stains. Now the practical conduct of his life 
looked very much as if he ignored this. His intense love of art 
rendered him unmindful of the great duties of religion. It is very 
melancholy to be informed that he was accustomed to say, “ The man 
will never make a painter who looks for the Sunday with pleasure 
as an idle day.” His habit of painting on that day explains what 
he meant. Johnson knew the mournful failing of his friend, and 
the deep and fatal sinfulness involved in it, when, as he was on his 
dying bed, he begged him “ to read the Scriptures carefully, and to 
abstain from using his pencil on the sabbath.” To these requests 
Sir Joshua gave a willing assent, and is said to have faithfully 
observed them. So writes his biographer. We trust the artist did 
take the dying moralist’s advice. We are sure that he would paint 
the better for it. Examples of the past and present show that 
Beynolds was mistaken about the need of painting every day. 
Beligion—deep, earnest religion—that which takes in the whole 
gospel, and which penetrates the depths of the soul—that which 
transforms the man and brings him into fellowship with the infinite 
and glorious mind of Christ—that which makes the sabbath a 
delight, and gives sacredness to every portion of time, by exhibiting 
it as a talent from the Giver of all good, to be devoted to his 
glory—is not only in harmony with the profession of the artist, 
and with all the diversified employments of social life, but it 


144 


SHADES AND ECHOES OF OLD LONDON. 


improves, exalts and dignifies them. All genius is a Divine gift, 
while between that and inspiration properly so called, a very bold 
and decided distinction is to be drawn; the former no less than 
the latter is a sovereign bestowment from the Father of lights. 
Men of genius have in many cases recognised this, and felt that 
in acknowledging dependence upon the Almighty for intellectual 
endowments, they were only doing what that fact required, when 
they sought from the same source the sanctification of their powers 
through the gracious bestowment of the Holy Spirit. Piety elevates 
genius, gives it a celestial glow, throws round it a saintly halo, 
as every one of sanctity and taste must feel who has studied the 
exquisite pictures of Fra Angelico at Florence, of whom it is said, 
he never painted without prayer. 

In our next paper, upon Johnson, we shall refer to the Literary 
Club. He and Sir Joshua Reynolds shared in the honour of found¬ 
ing it, and, with Burke and Goldsmith, formed the brightest stars 
in that constellation of intelligence, wit, and genius. Sir John 
Hawkins tells us, that the celebrated Mrs. Montague invited the 
members to dine at her house for two successive years, possibly 
blending, with a curiosity to hear their conversation, a desire to 
intermingle with it the charms of her own. She, it is said, gave 
the first occasion for distinguishing the society by the appellation 
of “literary”—an honour, it is pretended, which they were too 
modest to assume. It must have been a rare intellectual treat, 
whatever it was in other respects, to mingle in this party of savans, 
when their conversational powers would no doubt be wound up to 
the highest pitch by the presence and the stimulating talk of that 
eloquent and eccentric lady. 

Sir Joshua, in 1770, became a member of another association, 
which dined together on stated days at the British Coffee-house, 
Cockspur-street. At some occasional parties of a similar kind we 
also meet him; one, especially memorable, at the St. James’s 


SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS. 


145 


Coffee-house, from the circumstance of the individuals present 
taking it into their heads to compose extempore epitaphs on each 
other. Poor Goldsmith came in for cutting jokes, as he often did ; 
and this suggested his well-known poem, entitled “Retaliation,” 
in which he thus hits off the character of Reynolds, who, it must 
be remembered, was deaf—an infirmity which he diminished by 
the aid of a trumpet:— 

“ Here Reynolds is laid; and to tell you my mind. 

He has not left a wiser or better behind ; 

His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand; 

His manners were gentle, complying, and bland ; 

Still born to improve us in every part, 

His pencil our faces, his manners our heart. 

To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering; 

When they judged without skill, he was still hard of hearing; 

When they talked of their Raphaels, Corregios, and stuff, 

He shifted his trumpet and only took snuff." 

In a former paper we visited Somerset House, to meet the shade 
of one of the princes of British science : to the same place we now 
repair as we follow the shade of one of the princes of British art. 
The building so intimately connected with the Royal Society, is also 
united by a bond as close, to the Royal Academy. Newton was an 
early president of the one ; Reynolds was the first president of the 
other. The Academy was instituted in 1768. It w r as opened on the 
2nd of January, 1769, when the president delivered a Discourse, and 
was soon afterwards knighted by George III. The beautiful composi¬ 
tion then read was followed by others, which have secured for the 
author a literary as well as an artistic reputation. Sir Joshua’s 
success has long since been decided in both capacities; and 
“ students in art have reason to be grateful for the feeling by 
which the author of the Discourses was influenced in composing 
them, and to rejoice that the talents of their great projector were 
so admirably adapted to the task which he assigned himself.” As 
we peruse the Discourses we seem to sit on one of the benches in 


146 


SHADES AND ECHOES OF OLD LONDON. 


the venerable and spacious room at the top of the building, devoted 
to the Society’s use, in the midst of a learned and polite assembly, 
with whom, as the aristocracy of talent, the aristocracy of rank 
loved to mingle ; while all were eager to catch the tasteful instruc¬ 
tions which flowed from the lips of the accomplished president. 
We call to mind the story that, one evening, a certain earl was 
present, who at the close of the lecture went up to Reynolds, and 
observed: “ Sir Joshua, you read your Discourse in so low a tone 
that I could not distinguish one word you said.” “ That,’ replied 
the president, "with a modesty instinct with wit—“ that was to my 
advantage.” And then the annual banquets on St. George’s day ? 
graced by the presence of royalty, distinguished foreigners, and 
other persons of renown—what ovations they proved in honour of 
him who had done so much, by pen and pencil, to advance the 
interests of the Academy! One sees him, in 1786, supported by 
the Prince of Wales and the Duke of Orleans, the latter sitting 
under his ow T n life-like picture by Reynolds’s hands; and three 
years later, comes the still more grateful scene, when Burke sent 
up to Reynolds the following note: “ This end of the table, in 
which as there are many admirers of art, there are many friends of 
yours, wish to drink an English tradesman who patronizes the 
arts better than the grand monarque, * Alderman Boydell, the com¬ 
mercial Maecenas.’” The toast was proposed by the president, and 
drunk with loud applause. 

Four years later, on the 10th of December, Reynolds delivered 
in the same place the last of his Discourses, closing that beautiful 
production with the memorable sentence which pointed to the man 
whose works through life he had loved to study : “ I should desire 
that the last words which I should pronounce in this Academy, and 
from this place, might be the name of Michael Angelo .” 

Growing infirmities led to his final resignation ; and a failure of 
sight put an end to those artistic pursuits which he had followed 


SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS. 


147 


from liis youth with so much ardour. The house in Leicester- 
square acquires a touching interest from a little incident connected 
with his last days. He was glad to amuse himself during his 
melancholy affliction, “ and part of his attention was bestowed upon 
a little tame bird which, like the favourite spider of the prisoner in 
the Bastile, served to pass away a lonely hour. But this proved 
also a fleeting pleasure; for one summer’s morning, the window of 
the chamber being by accident left open, the little favourite took 
flight, and was irrecoverably lost, although its master wandered for 
hours in the square before the house in the fruitless hope of re¬ 
claiming it.” A symbol of a moral sentiment lies in that simple 
story. So do the cherished joys of earth in many a case take 
wing, leaving those who have lost them to wander after them in 
vain. 

Sir Joshua .Reynolds, after suffering much from nervous disease, 
died in Leicester-square, February 23rd, 1792, aged sixty-nine. 
He had a public funeral. The remains were removed to Somerset 
House, and from thence the procession moved to the cathedral of St. 
Paul: it included forty-two mourning coaches and forty-nine private 
carriages, and the pall was borne by three dukes, two marquises, 
and five other noblemen. The funeral train was met by the lord 
mayor and sheriffs at Somerset-place, whilst vast multitudes lined 
the way to gaze upon the pageant; shops being shut, and people 
vying with each other to show homage to departed genius. He 
was interred in a crypt beneath the dome, where the ashes of other 
distinguished painters have since found their place of repose— 
Lawrence, Barry, Opie, West, Fuseli, and Turner. Nelson and 
Collingwood sleep within the same subterranean enclosure, to which 
Wellington is conveyed, reminding us of the truth, not less 
affecting than familiar, that neither skill in art nor prowess in 
arms can protect the sons of men from the stroke of the last 
enemy. 


148 


SHADES AND ECHOES OF OLD LONDON. 


I 


XI. DB. SAMUEL JOHNSON. 

“ My first journey to London !” There are few of the country-born 
inhabitants of the great city who do not look back to that event 
with peculiar interest. How busy imagination used to be in the 
days of their boyhood with this object of their hope. How the old 
grey metropolis, painted in fancy hues, used to loom before the 
eye, and excite eager longings for the day when the grand expe¬ 
dition was to be made. With feelings bordering on envy, the lad 
on his way to school before breakfast, as the summer sun smiled so 
cheerfully on the front of the provincial inn, looked up to the 
passengers on the roof of the London day-coach, and paused to 
witness the busy preparations of the red-coated driver and guard, 
and followed with his eye the well-laden vehicle rattling along 
the stones and whirling round the corner, and caught the echo of 
the merry horn, becoming fainter and fainter till it died away. 
And when perchance some young schoolfellow had been to spend 
his holidays in the mother city, with what curiosity was he 
welcomed on his return, and how eagerly did listening groups 
gather round him to receive his wonderful stories. When the 
period arrived for one’s own personal adventure in this way, how 
broken was the sleep the night before ! What dreams we had, all 
in glorious confusion ! Nor was there any tear of lying too late 
that morning. With what joy did we spring into the place booked 
some time before, and all day long how we did wonder about what 
we were to see; and did we not stretch our neck to catch a 
glimpse of every object in advance, as the coach neared White¬ 
chapel ? 

To how many has the first journey to London been really an 


DR. SAMUEL JOHNSON. 


149 


epoch in their history. The legendary tale of Whittington dreaming 
of London streets being paved with gold, and finding out at last 
that for him they might be said to be so, has found almost a 
counterpart in the actual experience of not a few, who have in 
succeeding centuries occupied his seat of honour and worn the civic 
chain. Arrival in the metropolis, too, has often proved the first 
step out of obscurity into fame. Minds full of genius have found it 
a battle-ground on which, not however till after much hard 
fighting, they have won the laurels of renown. As in the bio¬ 
graphy of commerce the struggles of young men in pursuit of 
wealth, during the first few years of their London life, would afford 
materials full of interest and instruction, so are illustrations and 
lessons supplied by the opening chapters of a metropolitan career 
in the history of aspirants after literary fame. 

We often think of Johnson’s first visit to London. He was 
twenty-eight years of age, and came up in search of fortune in 
a double sense. He wanted a livelihood; but literary ambition was 
coupled with the humbler desire. He and Garrick travelled from 
Lichfield together. They liked to talk of it afterwards, and would 
paint the picture of their poverty at the time in the very darkest 
colours, as men who rise are often wont to do. “ We rode and 
tied,” said the tragedian. “I came to London Avith twopence 
halfpenny in my pocket,” said the great lexicographer and critic. 
“What do you say?” his companion inquired. “Why, yes,” he 
rejoined, “ I came with twopence halfpenny in my pocket, and 
thou, Davy, with three halfpence in thine.” Johnson certainly was 
very badly off. His school at Lichfield had failed; and literature 
now was his only resource. It is ever, as Sir Walter Scott said, 
“ a good walking-stick, but a bad crutchit was so then even 
more than now, for readers were a limited class, and the book-trade 
far from flourishing. “You had better buy a porter’s knot,” 
observed W 7 ilcox, the publisher, to the newly arrived competitor in 


150 


SHADES AND ECHOES OF OLD LONDON. 


the race of authorship, as he looked on his large frame and 
vigorous limbs. For some time, so far as a maintenance was con¬ 
cerned, Johnson could hardly have been in greater straits had he 
taken the man’s advice. Even seven years after his first arrival, he 
was at times in such indigence that he could not pay for a lodging, 
and he and his friend Savage wandered whole nights about the 
streets. On one occasion they walked till morning round St. 
James’s-square, not at all, however, depressed by their situation ; 
as, according to Johnson’s own account, “they were in high spirits 
and brim-full of patriotism, and for several hours inveighed against 
the minister, and resolved they would stand by their country.” 

The first place in which Johnson lived on reaching London was 
a garret in the house of a Mr. Morris, staymaker, in Exeter-street, 
adjoining Catherine-street, in the Strand. Frequently four-pence 
halfpenny a day was all that he spent on his support, for he was 
rigidly honest, and would not get into debt without the means of 
payment; thus forming a noble exception to the too general 
practice of his brother adventurers in the book-making craft 
When now and then a little more cash diminished the need of 
extreme privation, he gave himself a treat after the following 
fashion. “ I dined very well for eightpenee, with very good 
company, at the Pine Apple in New-street, just by. Several of 
them had travelled. They expected to meet every day, but did not 
know one another’s names. It used to cost the rest a shilling, for 
they drank wine; but I had a cut of meat for sixpence, and bread 
for a penny, and gave the waiter a penny ; so that I was quite well 
served, nay, better than the rest, for they gave the waiter nothing.” 
Johnson’s life just then was a cold and comfortless one, but he had 
a friend in a Mr. Hervey, of whom he ever spoke with gratitude 
and affection. Beautiful is it to notice, amidst Johnson’s stern and 
rugged nature, fountains of feeling such as gush up in his well- 
known words: “If you call a dog Hervey, I shall love him.” 


DIt. SAMUEL JOHNSON. 


151 


Johnson also resided in Bow-street, Covent Garden, and in Castle- 
street, Oxford Market; but his early London history is better 
associated with another locality. 

There is a quiet spot at Clerkenwell which we are very fond of 
visiting. It is adorned with an archaeological relic of rare interest, 
one of the few which time and circumstances have spared. The 
picture of it still lingers on the brown cover of the “ Gentleman’s 
Magazine.” We allude to St. John’s Gate, through which, in days 
of yore, crusading knights, of the order of that name, often passed 
upon their high-mettled steeds ; but known in Johnson’s day, and 
since, for other associations. There lived, in the first half of the 
eighteenth century, the famous Mr. Cave, an enterprising publisher, 
who originated the periodical just mentioned, calling himself, in his 
editorial capacity, Sylvanus Urban. Johnson admired this primi¬ 
tive leader in a walk of literature since crowded by a host of 
followers. To St. John’s Gate he soon made his way, and beheld 
the edifice “with reverence,” as he expressly informed Mr. Boswell; 
an expression which the biographer interpreted in allusion to the 
miscellany, whereas later annotators, who have been as busy with 
Johnson’s works and life as their ancient predecessors were with 
Homer, inform us there can be no doubt the reference is to the 
edifice itself, with its chivalrous memories. We find Johnson 
writing to Mr. Cave, “ from Greenwich, next door to the Golden 
Heart, Church-street.” Afterwards he became a contributor to 
the magazine, and arranged with Cave for the publication of his 
early works. There he would often go with MSS. in his pocket to 
talk over literary and business matters with his new friend, and 
hence we can distinctly connect the shade of this great author, in 
his twenty-ninth year, with the gateway and the street adjoining. 
As we linger about it, we fancy we see him in shabby clothes, 
emerging from the little doorway under the shady arch, with that 
feeling of honest independence which Johnson of all men loved to 


152 


SHADES AND ECHOES OF OLD LONDON. 


cherish ; a feeling which proceeded from having done his arduous 
work and received his scanty pay, while there were no demands 
upon him beyond what his slender means could fully meet. 

The dictionary was commenced in 1747. While it was going 
forward, Boswell tells us that Johnson lived part of the time in 
Holborn, and part in Gough-square, Fleet-street. Here we are 
allowed to enter his retirement and see him at work. Up in a 
garret, No. 17, on the north-west corner of the square, we discover 
him, with six amanuenses, employed in the compilation of his 
magnum opus. There he is with piles of books, looking for passages 
fitted to illustrate his definitions, and marking them in the margin 
with a black-lead pencil, inscribing also the letters of the word under 
which they were to be introduced. The books are then handed 
over to his assistants, who copy the sentences on slips of paper, and 
arrange them in the order prescribed by the learned compiler. 
The preparation of those huge quarto volumes is tremendous drud¬ 
gery, and occupies him for eight years, during which time he reaps 
but small profit, owing to the great expense necessarily incurred. 
Gough-square was the scene of other labours. There he wrote the 
“Rambler” and “Idler;” and we are informed by Miss Reynolds, 
that, while employed upon the latter, he was so indigent that he 
dressed like a beggar, and lived as such. She tells us he wanted 
even a chair to sit on, particularly in his study, where a gentle¬ 
man, who frequently visited him, whilst writing his “Idler,” 
constantly found him at his desk, sitting, on a chair with three 
legs; and on rising from it he remarked that Dr. Johnson never 
forgot its defect, but w T ould either hold it in his hand, or place it 
with great composure against some support, taking no notice of its 
imperfection to his visitor. It is humiliating to think that a man 
who could and did work as he was wont to do—who penned in six- 
and-thirty hours the life of Savage—should have been so pressed 
and crushed by the narrowness of his pecuniary circumstances. 


DR. SAMUEL JOHNSON. 


153 


Nor was his poverty the only affliction which befel him in Gough- 
square. It was there that he lost his wife, for whom, though they 
do not seem to have led a very harmonious life together, he 
cherished a strong affection. Her death threw him into a 
paroxysm of agony, heightened probably by his hypochondriac 
temperament. Mrs. Piozzi states that Johnson’s negro servant, 
Francis, ran in the middle of the night to Westminster, to fetch 
Dr. Taylor to see his master, who was all but wild with excess of 
sorrow, and scarcely knew him when he arrived. “ After some 
minutes, however, the doctor proposed their going to prayer, as the 
only rational method of calming the disorder this misfortune had 
occasioned in both their spirits.” He preserved her wedding-ring 
as long as he lived, with affectionate care, in a little round wooden 
box, in the inside of which he pasted a slip of paper with the words: 
“ Eheu, Eliz. Johnson, nupta Jul. 9, 1736; mortua, eheu! Mart. 
17, 1752.” It was also while living in Gough-square that his 
mother died at Lichfield; another circumstance which awakened 
in his breast poignant sorrow, while it also led to the composition 
of the celebrated tale of “ Rasselas ”—a work which he sold for a 
sum sufficing to pay her funeral expenses, and some little debts 
that remained at the time of her death. This instance of filial 
affection and reverence reflects honour on the man who was so re¬ 
markable for his rough demeanour and apparent want of feeling. 
These redeeming traits, like myrtles growing among rocks, impart 
much beauty to a character which would otherwise be harsh and 
uninviting. 

In 1762, Johnson had a pension of 30QZ. a year settled upon him 
by the king, after which the need of labour for his support was 
considerably diminished, and his comforts were greatly increased. 
He soon afterwards removed to No. 1, Inner Temple-lane near the 
Bar. It was there that Boswell visited him immediately upon the 
formation of that acquaintance which ripened into so fast and firm a 


154 


SHADES AND ECHOES OF OLD LONDON. 


friendship. “ He received me,” he says, “ very courteously: but it 
must be confessed that his apartment and furniture, and morning 
dress, were sufficiently uncouth. His brown suit of clothes looked 
very rusty; he had on a little old shrivelled unpowdered wig, which 
was too small for his head ; his shirt neck, and knees of his breeches 
were loose; his black worsted stockings ill drawn up, and he had a 
pair of unbuckled shoes by way of slippers.” The man who was 
destined to be Johnson’s biographer domiciled himself hard by, in 
Farrer’s-buildings, that he might be near the object of his almost 
idolatrous admiration. Poor Bozzy! he writes as if he thought 
posterity would smile at his excessive reverence for his hero—an 
anticipation verified beyond what he conceived; but, notwith¬ 
standing, he persevered, with a sort of self-sacrifice, in doing 
honour to his hero. While giving abundant proofs of his own 
weakness, he has made succeeding generations his debtors for the 
minute and graphic portrait he spent so much of his life in paint¬ 
ing. One pictures him becoming, as far as possible, himself 
Johnsonian—and such was the fact—imitating the Great Mogul of 
the literary world in his slouching air, constant restlessness, and 
negligent attire. His clothes were too large, his wig undressed, 
nor could he sit still in his chair; points of resemblance to the 
great original which were certainly within the reach of very 
limited powers to attain. He would sit with mute attention to 
hear his oracle in conversation, while his eyes goggled with 
earnestness, and his ear leaned on the doctor’s shoulder, and his 
mouth dropped open to catch every stray word, and his memory 
was burdened, one would think almost beyond endurance, to carry 
home the treasures of an evening’s colloquy, and deposit all safe in 
a note-book for the volumes of that life the publication of which 
was to form the climacteric of the author’s existence. And how 
patiently would he endure the rudest treatment from his idol; 
submitting to him as a servant, obeying him as a child, and cower- 


DR. SAMUEL JOHNSON. 


155 


ing down under the fearful explosions, 44 What do you do there, 
sir ? Go to the table, sir. What are you thinking of, sir ? Why 
do you get up before the cloth is removed ? Come back to your 
place, sir—running about in the middle of meals!” 

Tuesday, July 19, 1763, is specially marked in Boswell’s diary. 
“Mr. Levett,” he writes, “this day showed me Dr. Johnson’s 
library, which was contained in two garrets over his chambers, 
where Lintot, son of the celebrated bookseller of that name, had 
formerly his warehouse. I found a number of good books, but very 
dusty, and in great confusion. The floor was strewed with manu¬ 
script leaves in Johnson’s own handwriting, which I beheld with a 
degree of veneration, supposing they might contain portions of the 
4 Kambler,’ or of 4 Rasselas.’ I observed an apparatus for chemical 
experiments, of which Johnson was, all his life, very fond. The 
place seemed to be very favourable for retirement and meditation. 
Johnson told me that he went up thither without mentioning it 
to his servant, when he wanted to study secure from interruption; 
for he would not allow his servant to say he was not at home 
when he really was.” 44 A servant’s strict regard for truth,” said he, 
44 must be weakened by such a practice. A philosopher may know 
that it is merely a form of denial; but few servants are such nice 
distinguishes. If I accustom a servant to tell a lie for me, have I 
not reason to apprehend that he will tell many lies for himself ?” 
The dingy lane of the Inner Temple suited Johnson’s taste very 
well, as he had no love for rural scenery, and would even ridicule 
the sentimentalism of green fields and babbling brooks: quite con¬ 
tent was he with such verdure as he could show his friend in what 
he called his 44 walk,” a long narrow paved court in the neighbour¬ 
hood, overshadowed by some trees, where he was wont to ramble 
after tea. 

Under date 1766, Boswell informs us :— 44 1 returned to London 
in February, and found Dr. Johnson in a good house in Johnson’s- 


156 


SHADES AND ECHOES OF OLD LONDON. 


court, Fleet-street, in which he had accommodated Mrs. Williams 
with an apartment on the ground floor, while Mr. Levett occupied 
his post in the garret ; his faithful Francis was still attending him.” 
These were three persons Avell known to the readers of Johnson’s 
life, indeed essential features in his domestic picture. Mrs. 
Williams was a blind Welsh lady, an admirer of the critic, who 
entertained a high regard for her talents and accomplishments, 
mingled with sterling and practical sympathy for her reverses. 
“ 1 see her now,” says Miss Hawkins, “ a pale, shrunken old lady, 
dressed in scarlet, made in the handsome French fashion of the 
time, with a lace cap with two stiffened projecting wings on the 
temples, and a black laced hood over it.” Robert Levett was a 
very humble practitioner in the medical profession, to whom 
Johnson took a great fancy, and declared that without him he should 
be dissatisfied, though attended by the whole college of physicians. 
His practice was large, but his fees were small; so that, though his 
patients were scattered all over London, from Houndsditch to 
Marylebone, he was still in a measure dependent on Johnson, whom 
he constantly attended through the tedious ceremony of his late 
breakfast. Though grotesque in appearance, stiff and formal in 
manners, and taciturn in company, Levett ever commanded the 
respect of his patron, who knew well how to penetrate through the 
surface of character, and get at the sweetness lying at the core, if 
any happened to be there. Francis was a negro who waited on 
the doctor with great fidelity. For this servant he always mani¬ 
fested a great concern, and finally by will bequeathed to him a 
handsome maintenance. 

These were by no means Johnson’s only hangers-on. While he 
kept his family in Fleet-street upon a settled allowance, he had 
numerous dependents out-of-doors, who, as he said, “ did not like 
to see him latterly unless he brought ’em money.” Hence he 
would assist them not only out of his own purse, but by contribu- 


DR. SAMUEL JOHNSON. 


157 


tions obtained from friends ; and this, he would add, “ is one of the 
thousand reasons which ought to restrain a man from drony 
solitude and useless retirement.” We are accustomed to think of 
Johnson only in connection with literature: it is very beautiful, in 
addition, to recognise him in the character of a philanthropist, 
bringing upon him the blessing of them that were ready to perish, 
and making the widow’s heart to sing for joy. The healing of 
wounded hearts, and the assuagement of smarting sorrows, attract 
less attention than the prizes won in the stadium of scholarship, or 
than the bays which adorn the brows of genius ; and yet we all 
know there are records kept of the former (when performed from 
right motives) in a world where the latter distinctions are over¬ 
looked as things of nought. Johnson’s intellectual efforts deny 
imitation, but his quiet benevolence is within the reach of every 
one. 

The penetralia of Johnson’s domestic retirement few were 
permitted to enter, the tavern and club room being the place where 
the literary world found access to their great oracle; but, as was 
fitting, Boswell was admitted to its mysteries, and he has left on 
record an account of dining in Johnson’s-court, written in a way 
that indicates how rare and distinguished was the privilege. 
“April 11th, being Easter Sunday, after having attended divine 
service at St. Paul’s, I repaired to Dr. Johnson’s. I had gratified 
my curiosity much in dining with Jean Jacques Kousseau, while he 
lived in the wilds of Neufchatel: I had as great a curiosity to dine 
with Dr. Samuel Johnson, in the dusty recess of a court in Fleet- 
street. I supposed we should scarcely have knives and forks, and 
only some strange, uncouth, ill-dressed dish; but I found every 
thing in very good order. We had no other company than Mrs. 
Williams, and a young woman whom I did not know. As a dinner 
here was considered a singular phenomenon, and as I was frequently 
interrogated on the subject, my readers may perhaps be desirous to 


158 


SHADES AND ECHOES OF OLD LONDON. 


know our bill of fare. Foote, I remember, in allusion to Francis 
the negro, was willing to suppose that our repast was black broth; 
but the fact was, that we had very good soup, a boiled leg of lamb 
and spinach, a veal pie, and a rice pudding.” Whether there 
were plums and sugar in the pie he does not say; but it is most 
likely there were, as these were, with Johnson, favourite ingredients 
in that dish. 

It may be added that the privilege of dining with the philosopher 
was preceded by the opportunity of breakfasting with him on the 
Good Friday before, when Boswell tells us they had tea and hot- 
cross buns; Dr. Levett, as Frank called him, presiding at table. 
“ He carried me with him,” Boswell goes on to inform us, “ to the 
church of St. Clement Danes, where he had his seat, and his 
behaviour was, as I had imagined to myself, solemnly devout. I 
never shall forget the tremulous earnestness with which he pro¬ 
nounced the awful petition in the Litany, “ ‘ In the hour of death, 
and at the day of judgment, good Lord, deliver us.’ ” The seat 
which he occupied in the north gallery, near the pulpit, is still 
pointed out,* and there one sees his shadow under circumstances 
which recall some of the most solemn moments of his earthly 
existence; for never does the soul so assert its immortality, and 
come so consciously near to the edge of the invisible realms, as 
when truly engaged in the worship of God, and earnestly hearing 
and reflecting upon the momentous truths of the gospel. We 
know no associations more affecting than those which take this 
form. Here listened and worshipped a distinguished mind, that is 
now gone into the world of awful wonder, which then awakened 
curiosity and solicitude. Here he thought of those realms of being 
into which he has been long since introduced; here he dwelt upon 
his relationship to that glorious Being in whose presence he has 
appeared; here he speculated with fear and trembling on what 
* A brass plate has been recently affixed to it, intimating that there Johnson sat. 


JOHNSON AT HOME, 



























































































































































































































DR. SAMUEL JOHNSON. 


161 


would be bis present condition and employments. What a change 
has the revelation of the secrets of eternity produced in his 
experience! 

Johnson’s fame was widely spread. He came to be one of the 
greatest notabilities of his day. Many of the great revered him, 
and on one occasion royalty commanded an interview. It took 
place in the royal library of Buckingham House; a full report of it 
is preserved, which previous to publication was perused and ap¬ 
proved by the king himself. A long conversation occurred on 
divers literary topics, Johnson feeling himself a monarch in that 
domain, and the sovereign fully acknowledging his authority there. 
Thorough manliness marked the interview on both sides, and did 
credit to both parties. A remark which Johnson made about a 
royal compliment which he received, is very amusing. He said he 
thought he had written too much. “I should have thought so 
too,” said the king, “ if you had not written so well.” “ No man,” 
said the flattered author, “could have paid a handsomer compli¬ 
ment; it was fit for a king to pay. It was decisive.” When 
asked whether he made a reply, he observed, “ No, sir: when the 
king had said it, it was to be so. It was not for me to bandy 
civilities with my sovereign.” The monarch was George hi., and 
it is not a little curious that Johnson should have been also in the 
presence of two personages so far removed from each other in point 
of time as Queen Anne and George iv. He was taken to the 
former to be touched for the scrofula; that superstitious practice, 
though on the decline, having not quite died out, for two hundred 
persons were touched when he was. Being asked if he remembered 
the queen, he said, “ he had a confused but somehow a sort of 
solemn recollection of a lady in diamonds, and a long black hood ” 
—one of the most picturesque views of her majesty, by the way, 
we ever remember having seen. George iv., when a little boy, 
was introduced to Johnson, who took the opportunity of asking 

G 


162 


SHADES AND ECHOES OF OLD LONDON. 


him what books he was reading, and in particular inquired as to 
his knowledge of the Holy Scriptures. The prince, in his answers, 
gave him great satisfaction; and as to the last said, “ that part of 
his daily exercises was to read Ostervald ”—no doubt the popular 
catechism and abridgment of sacred history. 

Another change in Johnson’s residence took place in 1776 ; but 
we still find him in his favourite Fleet-street. His new abode was 
in Bolt-court, No. 8. Boswell, on coming to London in the month 
of March that year, sought out his friend, and on discovering his 
removal, wrote down in his journal as follows:—“ I felt a foolish 
regret that he had left a court which bore his name ; but it was 
not foolish to be affected with some tenderness of regard for a 
place in which I had seen him a great deal, from whence I had 
often issued a better and a happier man than when I went in, and 
which had often appeared to my imagination, while I trod its 
pavement in the solemn darkness of night, to be sacred to his 
wisdom and piety.” We fully appreciate the biographer’s reverence 
for the old court, and cannot help ourselves regarding it still with 
feelings akin to his, although the place is now greatly changed. 
But Bolt-court, as his abode for the rest of his life, and the place 
where he died, comes in for a larger share of veneration, while 
round it there cling the richest recollections of its famous inhabit¬ 
ant. The house is gone, and the little garden has disappeared, 
“ which he took delight in wateringbut prints of the spot are 
preserved, and we can still see the three circular steps leading up 
to the door, with the flat projection over the doorway, and the long- 
row of windows in the roof, and the shrubs adorning the leads of a 
lower room, in advance of the adjoining residence. A tavern and a 
printing-office now occupy the chief portion of this little nook in 
one of London’s vast thoroughfares ; but the name of Johnson 
inscribed on the entrance is ever associated with the locality, and 
though many doubtless pass it by with other thoughts, we cannot 


DR. SAMUEL JOHNSON. 


163 


suppose that we alone are wont now and then to turn into the little 
retired avenue and dream of other days. 

Why there he is! with poor blind Mrs. Williams coming up the 
court; and on reaching the steps he whirls and twists about with 
strange gesticulations, and then, with a sudden spring, strides over 
the threshold as if engaged in gymnastic exercises, or performing 
a feat for a wager; the blind lady groping about to find the 
entrance, while her friend continues his odd movements on his way 
to his own room. He makes it an object of anxious care to go in 
and out by a certain number of steps from a particular point, and 
to commence the operation always with the same foot; right and 
left being trained to a particular order in this exercise ; and some¬ 
times be will even count his steps with great earnestness, lest there 
should be an error in the important process. 

Up comes Sir Joshua Reynolds’s coach, and out steps Miss 
Hannah More, who is shown into the little parlour, where she sits 
down on a chair, thinking it to be the doctor’s, hoping to catch from 
it some spark of his genius, when he enters with formal politeness 
and laughs at the lady for her mistake, the seat she has selected 
being one he never occupies. They talk away in the wains- 
cotted old room upon divers literary matters, while the printer’s 
errand boy stands impatient on the stairs, waiting for proof. The 
interview over, and Hannah much delighted with her reception, 
(for the doctor likes her,) she is handed by him to the coach, which, 
amidst a crowd of vehicles, now stands some eight or ten doors 
from Bolt-court, and then he exhibits such strange gesticulations 
that a crowd of people gather round equally surprised and diverted. 

We follow him back to his room, and watch him after he has 
done writing—as he muses in his chair, making sundry kinds of 
indescribable noises, or, as he talks to Bozzy, shaking all over, 
rubbing his knees, and puffing at the end of one of his sonorous 
sentences, like a whale rising to the surface of the water for a gasp 


164 


SHADES AND ECHOES OF OLD LONDON. 


of breath after some long deep plunge. Boswell gone, and all 
quiet, Johnson thinks of the necessities of his household, particularly 
of one member—an old cat, now very infirm and sick, Hodge by 
name, which is fond of oysters ; and to spare Francis the negro the 
degradation of waiting on a four-footed creature, Johnson actually 
trudges forth himself to an oyster shop to bring home the desired 
delicacy for the feline inmate. Gleams of humanity and kindness, 
often very strange, are ever and anon shining out from among the 
dark clouds of wrath and rudeness that roll over the spirit of this 
eccentric man. 

Johnson walking along the street by himself w r as a notable 
spectacle; not only for a peculiar solemnity of deportment and 
measured step, which we fancy would have reminded us of his style 
of composition, as if he were beating time to his own sentences; 
but for a practice which is thus described: “ Upon every post, as 
he passed, he deliberately laid his hand; but missing one of them, 
when he had got at some distance, he seemed suddenly to recollect 
himself, and immediately returning back, carefully performed the 
accustomed ceremony, and resumed his former course, not omitting 
one till he gained the crossing.” 

Johnson in conversation, as he threaded the mazes of a London 
crowd, was worth hearing; and one would also have liked to see 
him when some clever rejoinder fell on his ear; as, for example, 
when after visiting Westminster Abbey with Goldsmith, he had 
said to his companion, “Forsitan et nostrum nomen miscebitur 
istis”—Goldsmith slily whispered to Johnson, as they stopped at 
Temple Bar, and he pointed at the grim heads of the executed 
Jacobites, “Forsitan et nostrum nomen miscebitur istis.”* 

What a privilege to meet Johnson at the tables of his friends— 
at Sir Joshua .Reynolds’s, General Oglethorpe’s, Mrs. Thrale’s, 

* “Perhaps our names will be associated with theirs Johnson was a Jacobite at 
heart. 


DR. SAMUEL JOHNSON. 


165 


and the rest; or at his club at “ Sams’s,” No. 40, Essex-street, 
where the terms were lax and the expenses light, the forfeit for 
absence being two-pence ; at the “ King’s Head,” Ivy-lane, Newgate- 
street, where he constantly resorted on Tuesday nights, and played 
the part of symposiarcJi, till the association was broken up ; or at 
the “ Literary Club,” by far the most illustrious, as it proved the 
most enduring, first assembling in the “ Turk’s Head,” Gerard- 
street, Soho, and still continued at the “ Thatched House,” accord¬ 
ing to the standing toast, “Esto perpetua.” Johnson at dinner, as 
he engaged with equal earnestness and relish in the practical 
discussion of plate after plate of good fare, and the philosophical 
discussion of question after question of manifold kinds, was a 
spectacle to be long remembered by those who witnessed it; and 
not less so, Johnson at tea, drinking a dozen cups, and pouring 
forth streams of shining eloquence, or doubling that number and 
remaining silent, because his hostess had invited him to serve as a 
lion to the company. 

All this, however, and much more, we must leave, and hasten to 
the end. Johnson died in the back-room first-floor of the house in 
Bolt-court, in 1784. The particulars of his death have been 
treasured up with the same care as the minutest details of his life. 
As we peruse the narrative, we feel how melancholy was the new 
interest which gathered round his favourite abode, as his friends 
perceived the decline of his health. We see messengers coming 
up the narrow passage to make inquiries, and many an associate 
and disciple of the great man hastening with an anxious countenance 
to hear once more a voice which had so often filled them with 
admiration. We hear him talking of his will, and making provision 
for the negro, Francis ; and eagerly do we listen for all that throws 
light on the state of the sufferer’s mind in reference to religion. 
Religion had ever been to Johnson a subject of reverential thought. 
The forms of it he had studiously maintained; but his religious 


1G6 


SHADES AND ECHOES OF OLD LONDON. 


meditations were pervaded by a deep melancholy, and his religions 
services were tinged with superstition. He had dreaded death, for 
he had looked to his own performances as a ground of trust. 
Towards the latter end his views improved; gospel light shone 
clearly on his soul, and he became, it may be hoped, another man. 
On one occasion, when directed to his own good works as a ground 
of religious hope, he asked the question so well fitted to test that 
common idea, to expose that fatal delusion: “ But how do we know 
when ive have done enough ?” “ For some time before his death, 

all his fears were calmed and absorbed by the prevalence of his 
faith and his trust in the merits and propitiation of Christ.” “ My 
dear doctor,” said he to Dr. Brocklesby, who made the above 
statement, “ believe a dying man—there is no salvation but in the 
sacrifice of the Lamb of God.” This beautiful testimony to the 
worth of the gospel in a dying hour may fitly terminate this paper 
on one who, with all his great faults and failings, belongs to the 
most illustrious group of the shades of the departed that meet us 
amidst the scenes of old London. His remains were interred in 
Westminster Abbey ; and as we pause in the poet’s corner, and 
think of his rare endowments and acquisitions, all become lost in 
the infinite importance of his dying words—“ There is no salvation 
but in the sacrifice of the Lamb of God.” 


XII. EDMUND BUBKE. 

We like the Middle Temple. We like to stand, on a sunny day, 
beside the only fountain to the east of Temple Bar, and to watch 
its scanty jet, flinging out spray like so much diamond dust, pro¬ 
ducing delicious sensations of coolness amidst the burning heat 



EDMUND BUKKE. 


167 


reflected from the old stone walls, and suggesting divers pensive 
thoughts upon human pleasures, sparkling and brief as the little 
drops which are every moment forming and disappearing before 
one’s eyes. We like to saunter about the garden and gaze on the 
exterior of the stately hall—a specimen of the architecture of the 
sixteenth century, when, in its Gothic form, the art was getting 
into the sear and withered leaf of autumn, albeit exhibiting some 
rich flushes of beauty, like the yellow and brown that tint the 
foliage once coloured with virgin green. We like to enter within 
the walls of the edifice, where its chief magnificence is displayed, 
and, standing on the da'is at the western end, look up to the 
timbered roof, with its massive pendants and simple carvings—and 
round on the painted windows, emblazoned with the arms of 
illustrious benchers—and on the wall adorned with portraits of 
English sovereigns—and down upon the stone floor and strong 
oaken tables, on which, for three long centuries, gentlemen be¬ 
longing to the famous fraternity of the Middle Temple have eaten 
their dinners and kept their terms. We like to think of the great 
ornaments of legal learning connected with the place—of Somers 
and Hardwicke, Blackstone and Cowper, Thurlow and Dunning, 
Curran and Tenterden, Eldon and Stowell, of which last two 
marble busts are preserved in the recess on the north-western side 
of the noble room. But as we muse upon the shades of the de¬ 
parted, in this venerable hall, one happens especially to strike us, 
who, though here educated in lawyer-like erudition, is best known 
to posterity by his consummate abilities as a statesman and philo¬ 
sopher. 

Here he comes, in his twentieth year; tall, erect, well-formed, 
but not very robust in appearance, with a countenance of much 
sweetness, and esteemed by ladies very handsome. The expression 
of his face, from its variableness, is what a painter would find it 
difficult to represent. In a state of quiescence, the marks of in- 


168 


SHADES AND ECHOES OF OLD LONDON. 


tellect are rather vague and indeterminate; but let anything excite 
him, and at once the symbols of mental strength are manifest on 
the lines of that broad brow, and in the light of those large eyes. 
He does not care about dress, and his gait is rather awkward, 
giving you the idea of a man with two left legs. So says Sir 
Joshua Reynolds, a judge in such matters. His powers of con¬ 
versation are evidently great, from the spell in which he binds his 
companion at the table, who seems to forget the good fare before 
him as he listens to the winged words which fly from the lips of 
this new student for the bar; nor can the hearty laugh of the 
hearer fail to tell of the wit and humour of the eloquent talker. 
Would you know who he is ? then turn to the entry in the books 
of the Middle Temple, under date April 23, 1747. Here it is, 
rendered into English:—Mr. Edmund Burke, second son of 
Richard Burke of the city of Dublin, one of the attorneys of the 
Exchequer Court of our lord the king in the kingdom of Ireland, 
is admitted into the society of the Middle Temple, London.” 

Letters bring up the mental and moral image of a man as 
nothing else can do. We have before us one written by Burke on 
his first arrival in London. “You’ll expect some short account of 
my journey to this great city. To tell you the truth, I made very 
few remarks as I rolled along, for my mind was occupied with 
many thoughts, and my eyes often filled with tears when I re¬ 
flected on all the dear friends I left behind. A description of 
London and its natives would fill a volume. The buildings are 
very fine. It may be called a sink of vice ; but its hospitals and 
charitable institutions, whose turrets pierce the skies, like so many 
electrical conductors, avert the wrath of Heaven. As to the state 
of learning in this city, you may know I have not been long 
enough in it to form a proper judgment of that subject. I do not 
think, however, there is as much respect paid to a man of letters on 
this side the water as you imagine. Notwithstanding discourage- 


EDMUND BURKE. 


169 


ment, literature is cultivated to a high degree ; poetry raises her 
enchanting wing to heaven; history arrests the wings of time in 
her flight to the gulf of oblivion; philosophy, the queen of arts 
and the daughter of heaven, is daily extending her intellectual 
empire ; fancy sports on airy wings, like a meteor on the bosom of 
a summer cloud ; and even metaphysics spins her cobwebs and 
catches some flies; the House of Commons not unfrequently ex¬ 
hibits explosions of eloquence that rise superior to those of Greece 
and Rome, even in their proudest days. Yet, after all, a man will 
make more by the figures of arithmetic than the figures of rhetoric, 
unless he can get into the trade wind, and then lie may sail over 
Pactolean sands. Soon after my arrival in town, I visited West¬ 
minster Abbey ; the moment I entered I felt a kind of awe pervade 
my mind which I cannot describe. The very silence seemed 
sacred.” 

This, as far as it goes, is Burke all over. In these extracts we 
have foreshadowings of what was seen in the man, the orator, and 
the author, as he was when Fame had seated him beside her on her 
throne. His keen sensibilities, his sweeping views, his fondness for 
learning, his majestic fancy, his stately and march-like diction, his 
love of architecture, his taste for “the sublime and beautiful,” 
come out here in unmistakable development, dashed somewhat, it 
is true, with a juvenile air, which time soon dissipated. Nor can 
one doubt that the stirrings of oratorical ambition were then felt in 
his youthful breast, and perhaps some dim vision was even then 
before him, that the time might come when his voice would add 
to the honours of British eloquence within the walls of the 
Commons House of Parliament. Perhaps he was already beginning 
to attend to figures of arithmetic, as well as figures of rhetoric, 
with a view to his complete qualification for public life. Certainly, 
he afterwards showed that he was a master in both respects, 
proving himself as much at home in calculations touching financial 


170 SHADES AND ECHOES OF OLD LONDON. 

reform as in the resources of imagination wherewith to adorn the 
most abstract principles of policy and government. His London 
acquaintances pronounced him “ a remarkably clever and pro¬ 
mising young man ”—“ one possessed of very superior genius and 
information but he was not destined to rank among the Hard- 
wiokes and Eldons of the Middle Temple, having an order of mind 
and a cherished taste decidedly more fitted for the senate than the 
bar—for letters than law. 

Having spent a few winters in London, broken by an occasional 
residence in the country, of which he was passionately fond, he at 
length gave up all thoughts of the legal profession. His plans 
remained unsettled, even after his marriage, when we find him 
taking up his abode somewhere in the village of Battersea, then 
retaining by the river-side rural charms since faded and gone; and 
w r e picture him, on a summer’s evening, sitting beside the Thames, 
or gliding down the stream in a boat, full of such uncertain 
thoughts as he expresses in the following letter, written August 
10th, 1757. “ Apology for my long silence is found in my manner 
of life, chequered with various designs, sometimes in London, some¬ 
times in remote parts of the country, sometimes in France, and 
shortly, please God, to be in America.” In America ! So among 
other schemes of this dreamy enterpriser was one for crossing the 
Atlantic, suggested, it is said, by an invitation from an old college 
friend settled in Philadelphia. Had he gone, how much would 
have gone with him! English history would have been deprived 
of one of the fullest, most interesting, and most valuable chapters 
of political and literary biography. But he did not go, and we find 
him in 1759 in Wimpole-street, Cavendish-square—a street, by 
the way, in which, at No. 67, the “ History of the Middle Ages ” 
was written by Ilallam. While there, Burke probably was 
employed in literary occupation—writing for the “ Annual Be- 
gister,” in the early volumes of which his contributions may be 


EDMUND BURKE. 


171 


seen, forming materials for the history of that period, of eminent 
value. 

Burke next took up his abode at Plaistow, again evincing his 
love for suburban scenes; and there in the green lanes we like to 
picture him indulging his taste for rural objects. A ladv, then 
about fourteen years old, and residing in that neighbourhood, 
informed one of his biographers that she perfectly remembered him 
there, that his brother Richard lived chiefly with him, and that 
they were noticed in the neighbourhood for their talents and sociable 
qualities, and particularly for having a variety of visitors, who were 
understood to be authors soliciting a private opinion of their works, 
and not unfrequently men of rank. In Wimpole-street we after¬ 
wards find Burke again, and then in Queen Anne-street, his father- 
in-law, Dr. Nugent, living with him there. For seven years he 
occupied the latter residence, when he removed to the neighbour¬ 
hood of Beaconsfield, so intimately connected witli the memory of 
the great statesman in his latter days. 

In our notice of Dr. Johnson, we referred to the formation and 
progress of the Literary Club. Burke was one of the original mem¬ 
bers, and therefore his shade haunts the Turk’s Head. We see in 
him there a conspicuous star, adding much to the brightness of 
that celebrated constellation of learning and wit. So very superior 
was he in conversation, that Johnson, who plumed himself so much 
on his own gift in this respect, and assumed something like a kingly 
sway in that chamber of intellectual peers, was wont, in the 
strongest terms, to laud Burke’s good talk, as he often termed it. 
“ Burke,” he would say, “ is an extraordinary man; his stream of 
mind is perpetual; he does not talk from a desire of distinction, 
but because his mind is full. That fellow calls forth all my powers. 
He is the only man whose common conversation corresponds with 
the general fame which he has in the world. Take up whatever 
topic you please, he is ready to meet you. No man of sense could 


172 


SHADES AND ECHOES OF OLD LONDON. 


meet Mr. Burke by accident under a gateway, to avoid a shower, 
without being convinced that he was the first man in England. If 
you met him for the first time in the street, where you were stopped 
by a drove of oxen, and you and he stepped aside for shelter, but 
for five minutes, he’d talk to you in such a manner, that when you 
parted you would say, ‘ This is an extraordinary man.’ Now,” 
added he, with a modesty he rarely expressed, “ you may be long 
enough with me without finding anything extraordinary.” Gold¬ 
smith, who tried to shine in the same way, was equally enamoured 
of Burke’s skill in conversation, praising it above that of the king 
of critics, and asking in reply to an eulogy upon the colloquial 
achievements of “ the old man eloquent,” “ But is he like Burke, 
who winds into his subject like a serpent ?” 

Burke’s conversational fame, but still more the literary reputation 
which he acquired by his “ Philosophical Inquiry into tbe Origin 
of our Ideas of the Sublime and Beautiful,” rendered him a man of 
note in all well-informed circles, before he entered upon the stage 
of political conflict in the House of Commons, and interwove his 
name and history with the annals of the British empire. In 1766 
he first appeared in parliament, and began his career with an 
augury of success as gratifying to his friends as it was flattering to 
himself. We remember well the old St. Stephen’s, with its close 
and heavy galleries, its narrow floor, its long benches, the time- 
honoured chair of the speaker, and the huge brazen chandeliers 
containing a vast array of wax candles. It had somewhat of a 
meeting-house aspect, but it had glorious associations of patriotism, 
statesmanship, and oratory, in which many a young student of 
English history, as he sat in the strangers’ gallery, delighted to 
revel. We remember it well, and we can almost fancy ourselves in 
that very house on the night of the 14th of January, 1766, when 
Mr. Burke made his maiden speech, and took up the American 
question. He has just sat down amidst great applause, when Mr. 


EDMUND BURKE. 


173 


Pitt gets up, and observes that “ the young member has proved a 
very able advocate ; he had himself intended to enter at length 
into the details, but lie has been anticipated with so much ingenuity 
and eloquence, that there is little left for him to say: he congratu¬ 
lates him on his success, and his friends on the value of the 
acquisition they have made.” That is enough. Such praise is of 
itself a passport to fame. Cordial congratulations from fellow- 
members follow that effort; and friends, who have been sitting in 
the gallery to witness his debut , perhaps with some anxiety, as soon 
as the house breaks up, come crowding round him with fervent 
greetings. The public are loud in extolling the new statesman. 
A member of the Literary Club, not over-amiable, not fancying 
Burke very much, indeed a little annoyed by a recent encounter 
with him, and envious of his superior powers, expresses some 
surprise at his political elevation; but he is soon crushed by the 
dictum of Johnson, who declares: “Sir, there is no wonder at all. 
We, who know Mr. Burke, know that he will be one of the first men 
of the country As such we propose to follow his “shade” through 
the rest of this sketch. 

Many characteristic reminiscences of the man and his oratory 
are connected with the old House of Commons. Were its walls 
still standing, were they endowed with memory, and could they 
speak, how would they tell of his famous speeches on American 
affairs, on financial reform, on Mr. Fox’s East India bill, on the 
Nabob of Arcot’s debts!—pieces of resplendent eloquence, in which 
reason, knowledge, and imagination vie with each other, all dressed 
in that livery of stately diction, with which his master mind was 
w r ont to clothe them as they fulfilled his service. Those walls 
would tell of that memorable scene of excitement, v r hen he and 
Mr. Fox, after a firm friendship for many years, broke on the 
subject of the French revolution ; the former exclaiming: “ I knov r 
the value of my line of conduct; I have indeed made a great 


174 


SHADES AND ECHOES OF OLD LONDON. 


sacrifice; I have done my duty, though I have lost my friend ; 
there is something in the detested French constitution that en¬ 
venoms every thing it toucheswhile the latter, bursting into 
tears, appealed to the remembrance of their past attachment, their 
reciprocal affection, as dear and almost as binding as the ties of 
nature between father and son. Those walls would tell of subse¬ 
quent fierce conflicts between Burke and the Whig party, among 
whose leading members he had formerly been ranked; and how 
the violence, not to say bitterness of speech, that sometimes marked 
the debates between him and them, illustrated those well-known 
words of the wise man, “ A brother offended is harder to be won 
than a strong city, and their contentions are like the bars of a 
castle/’ Those walls would tell of the significant looks with which 
Burke was often regarded when he arose to address the house, and 
how even strangers easily recognised him in his latter days, in the 
tall elderly gentleman with a tight brown coat, bobwig with curls, 
and huge spectacles, on the side opposite to Mr. Fox ; how occasion¬ 
ally even the eloquence of the great orator had a soporific effect, 
and an elaborate speech, full of abstract disquisition, extended 
rather beyond the limit of parliamentary patience, induced honour¬ 
able members, not accustomed to go so deeply into things, to get up 
and put on their hats and leave the house ; and how, finally, when 
a young generation appeared, knowing little of the days of Chatham 
and the applause he yielded Burke, they would sometimes, when 
he rose, rudely drown his voice with boisterous interruptions. 
Those walls could also tell of a ludicrous Irish incident in the 
history of Burke’s oratory, and with what tact he turned it to 
account. “ The minister,” said he, “ comes down in state, attended 
bv his creatures of all denominations, beasts clean and unclean : 
for the treasury, as it has been managed of late, is worse than 
Noah’s ark. With such, however, as they are he comes down, 
opens his budget, and edifies us all with a speech. Well, he sits 


EDMUND BURKE. 


175 


down. YV hat is the consequence ? One half of the house goes away. 
A gentleman on the opposite side gets up and harangues on the 
state of the nation, and in order to keep matters even, another half 
retires at the close of the speech. A third gentleman follows their 
example, and rids the house of another half” A loud laugh rung 
through the building at this bull of the great Irishman. u Sir,” 
said he, addressing the chair, “ I take the blunder to myself, and 
express my satisfaction at having said anything that can put the 
house in good humour.” 

Walking up and down Parliament-street—that pathway to the 
grandest of political arenas—along which so many anxious senators, 
their brains throbbing with excitement, their hearts bursting with 
passion, have gone to and fro, we pass and repass the shade of 
Edmund Burke, and have recalled to our minds two little incidents 
in this great man’s life, connected with that well-known thorough¬ 
fare ; the one illustrative of his strong feeling of political anta¬ 
gonism, the other of his pitiful and practical benevolence. One 
wet night, as Mr. Cur wen, a supporter of Mr. Fox’s views on the 
French revolution, was waiting for his carriage at the door of the 
House of Commons, Mr. Burke requested that he would give him a 
ride home. The former rather reluctantly complied. The two 
statesmen comfortably seated, Mr. Burke began to compliment 
Mr. Curwen, under the mistaken idea that he agreed with him in 
his opinion of recent events in the history of France. The latter 
could not disguise his real sentiments, though he expected that by 
expressing them ho would rouse the indignation of his companion. 
So it proved ; for Mr. Burke, on hearing a declaration of sympathy 
with Fox, caught hold of the check-string, and furiously cried : “ You 
are one of these people—set me down.” They had reached 
Charing Cross. Mr. Curwen with difficulty prevailed upon the 
irascible statesman to continue in the carriage till they reached his 
house in Gerard-street, when, without breaking the silence, 


176 


SHADES AND ECHOES OF OLD LONDON. 


which had lasted since his fiery exclamation, he hurried out of the 
vehicle, and ended for ever all intercourse with the honourable 
member. 

But the breast so susceptible of resentment was equally the 
subject of generous and kind affections. Going home from the 
house one night on foot, he was accosted by one of those unhappy 
beings who haunt the highways of the great metropolis, seeking for 
a subsistence the wages of vice, and who, wasted by want and 
sorrow, became a supplicant for charity. In reply to his inquiries, 
she stated that she had been lady’s maid in a respectable family, 
and had been driven through gradations of misery to her present 
forlorn state, which she confessed to be wretched beyond description, 
looking forward to death as her only relief. “ Young woman,” 
said Mr. Burke, as he reached his door, “ you have told a pathetic 
story; whether true or not is best known to yourself; but tell me, 
have you a serious and settled wish to quit your present way of life, 
if you have the opportunity of so doing?” “Indeed, sir,” she 
replied, “I would do anything to do it.” “Then come in,” said Mr. 
Burke. u Here, Mrs. Webster,” he proceeded, addressing his 
housekeeper, “ here is a new recruit for the kitchen ; take care of 
her for the night, and let her have everything suitable to her 
condition, till we can inform Mrs. Burke of the matter.” The poor 
fallen creature was reclaimed through his compassionate care; and 
we must confess, that on that achievement of mercy our minds rest 
with a satisfaction and pleasure far beyond what we feel as we dwell 
on his brilliant intellectual exploits. 

Walking past Whitehall, we recollect that Burke, as paymaster- 
general in the .Rockingham Cabinet, once occupied the office in 
that building devoted to this department; but there we cannot 
linger on our way back to Westminster Hall, where we must glance 
at the great orator on the most celebrated occasion of his life. The 
part he took in the impeachment of Warren Hastings was charac- 


I-MrEACIO!ENT CF WARREN HASTINGS. 































































































EDMUND BURKE. 


179 


teristic of the man. His imagination was apt to lead captive his 
reason, to inflame his passions, and to carry him away as on the 
wings of a storm. He did nothing by halves, and there was no 
resisting the outbursts of his impetuosity. Impelled by con¬ 
scientious feelings, though directed by mistaken opinions, a moral 
power increased the force of the excitement. Hastings, no doubt, had 
been unrighteous in his administration of Indian affairs, but he 
was hardly the culprit that Burke made him out to be. The scene 
of the trial was Westminster Hall; and never since the days of 
Lord Strafford and King Charles the First had that edifice witnessed 
such an array of judicial state. It was fitted up with scarlet hang¬ 
ings, and was surrounded by military pomp. Grenadiers guarded 
the entrance, and cavalry kept the streets. Peers, in robes of 
velvet and ermine, were conducted by heralds to their appointed 
seats. The twelve judges were present in full judicial costume. 
On green benches, with tables, sat members of the House of Com¬ 
mons, and in a box, especially appropriated for their use, were the 
conductors of the impeachment. Fox, Sheridan, Windham, and Grey 
were of the number, all in court dresses. Burke, in like manner at¬ 
tired, was foremost among them. The audience, too, was-worthy of 
the occasion and the actors. It was an assemblage of the beauty, 
chivalry, and talent of the land. Princesses and peeressess, 
generals and captains, authors and artists, together with ambassadors 
from foreign courts, crowded the seats appropriated for spectators. 
The serjeants made proclamation. Hastings knelt at the bar, while 
his counsel, including high legal names—Law, Dallas, and Plumer 
—were at his side. The charges were read. It took two days to 
read them—a process which, tedious as it was, did not diminish 
the interest felt in the proceedings. On the third day Burke 
commenced his harangue. It was a wonderful effort, full of 
ingenious argument, pictorial description, splendid imagery, and 
resistless appeals, now swelling into terror, now melting into 


180 


SHADES AND ECHOES OF OLD LONDON. 


pathos. The ladies wept; there were hysterical sobs; Mrs. 
Sheridan fainted; and even the heart of the stern chancellor was 
moved. At last came the thunder-clap:—“I impeach Warren 
Hastings of high crimes and misdemeanors; I impeach him in the 
name of the Commons House of Parliament, whose trust he has 
betrayed ; I impeach him in the name of the English nation, whose 
ancient honour he has sullied; I impeach him in the name of the 
people of India, whose rights he has trodden under-foot, and whose 
country he has turned into a desert; lastly, in the name of human 
nature itself, in the name of both sexes, in the name of every age, 
in the name of every rank, I impeach the common enemy and 
oppressor of all.” It was a speech which admirers of rhetorical elo¬ 
quence rank with Demosthenes’ Crown oration. 

We must return, before we conclude, to the private life of this 
eminent man. After he had obtained his rural retreat at Beacons- 
field, where he followed his early predilections for agricultural 
pursuits, and soothed his mind amidst sylvan scenes after the 
dialings and irritations of political controversy, his residences in 
London were only temporary and often changed. We find him 
during the sittings of parliament occupying houses in the Broad 
Sanctuary, Westminster; Fludyer-street; Charles-street; Duke- 
street ; and Gerard-street. One of these residences is associated 
with a well-known story. While staying in Charles-street, he was 
visited one day by a young man, who with a rich genius had an 
empty purse. He had come to London as a literary adventurer, 
and had exhausted all the little stock of money he could scrape 
together. He wrote a volume of poems, but he had no name to 
recommend it. In his distress he went to an opulent peer, who did 
not refuse his patronage, but passed by in total neglect the poet’s 
application for pecuniary aid. The young man thought of Mr. 
Burke, and wrote a letter to him, “ hearing,” he said, “ that he was 
a good man, and presuming to think that he was a great one.” 


EDMUND BURKE. 


181 


lie went with a full heart to Charles-street, and there left the 
letter. lie said, “ The night after I delivered my letter at his door, 
I was in such a state of agitation that I walked Westminster Bridge 
backwards and forwards until daylight!” The commoner, with 
far less ample means, did what the nobleman refused. He helped 
the young man, gave him criticism and advice, sent round members 
of his family to get subscriptions for his work, introduced him to 
men of influence, and opened to him a door that led to fame and 
fortune. The young man was the poet Crabbe, and it was not 
without tears that he used to tell of Mr. Burke’s kindness. 

One more locality we must visit. Brompton is a neighbourhood 
where, formerly more than now, consumptive invalids were wont 
to repair. Thither many a parent has conveyed his child as a last 
hope ; and as we walk through its squares and streets, we feel an 
air of melancholy come over us, at the thought of domestic joys 
there crushed—of fair blossoms of promise there torn away. Burke 
had a son he loved with his whole heart. Disease laid its hand 
upon him, and the father took him to Cromwell House at Brompton. 
Here he sunk and died. That blow nearly broke the great man’s 
heart. He never recovered from it. As we go down the gloomy 
lane by Cromwell House, we are led to ruminate on those pathetic 
passages in Burke’s letter to a noble lord, in which he gives way 
to his parental grief: “ The storm has gone over me, and I lie like 
one of those old oaks which the late hurricane has scattered about 
me. I am stripped of all my honours; I am torn up by the roots, 
and lie prostrate on the earth. I am alone. I have none to meet 
my enemies in the gate. I greatly deceive myself if, in this hard 
season, I would give a peck of refuse wheat for all that is called 
fame and honour in the world. I live in an inverted order. They 
who ought to have succeeded me are gone before me. They who 
should have been to me as posterity are in the place of ancestors.” 
Poor Burke! Writing to a friend, he said, ‘‘Mrs. Burke seeks 


182 


SHADES AND ECHOES OF OLD LONDON. 


tranquillity in prayer!” We hope he did himself. That is the last 
and best resource for souls stripped of their dearest joys. In 
communion with the Father of spirits, and approaching him through 
that Son with whom he is ever well pleased, the desolate find 
sympathy, and the wounded heart is healed. 

Amidst a cloud of domestic sorrow the shade of the great states¬ 
man here leaves us. His last days were spent away from his old 
London haunts, and his remains rest in the grave of his son and 
brother in the churchyard of Beaconsfield. 


XIII. JOHN HOWARD. 

“On the north side of the priory of St. Bartholomew,” says John 
Stowe, in his “Survey of London,” “is the lane truly called long, 
which reached from Smithfield to Aldersgate-street.” At the time 
when our venerable metropolitan topographer recorded this cha¬ 
racteristic notice of a well-known locality, it was “ built on both 
sides with tenements for brokers, tipplers, and such like but the 
brokers had the predominance afterwards, for an annotator upon 
Strype describes Long-lane as “ a place of note for the sale of 
apparel, linen and upholsterers’ goods, both secondhand and new, 
but chiefly for old.” It is more than probable, that many a thrifty 
salesman in that queer old neighbourhood made a decent fortune 
out of his yearly gains, though only one that we know of has 
attained to any celebrity. This is certain, that no fortune was 
ever laid up by any of the diligent sons of trade in our great 
metropolis, destined to a better use in the hands of the heir and 
successor, than the fortune of him to whom we now refer. Manx 
a father has felt what the wise man so touchingly expresses : “ I 
hated all the labour which I had taken under the sun, because I 



JOHN HOWARD. 


183 


should leave it to the man who should be after me ; and who 
knoweth whether he shall be a wise man or a fool ?” And survivors 
have witnessed a sad squandering by the new possessor of money 
scraped together by much toil, amidst not a little of self-denial. 
But the prosperous tradesman in Long-lane, whom we are now 
thinking of, was honoured as the accumulator of riches, which, 
instead of “ perishing through sore travail,” became, through the 
beneficence of his son, the instrument of mercy to England and the 
world, surrounding his name with a lustre at which generations to 
come will look back with reverence and praise. 

John Howard kept a shop somewhere about the corner of the 
place so noted for the sale of upholsterers’ goods; and when, by 
diligently following that line of business, he had obtained enough 
to enjoy his “ otiuin cum dignitate ,” he first retired to Enfield, and 
then removed to Clapton. About 1790, the Clapton residence was 
described as a venerable mansion situated on the western side of 
the street, but much decayed, and lately disfigured. Very soon 
after it was pulled down. There, in 1739, Mr. Howard must have 
been living in good circumstances, as in that year he paid the fine 
for not serving as sheriff of London. He had then a son, about 
thirteen years old, who was probably born in the Clapton house ; 
though considerable obscurity rests on the scene as well as the 
exact date of his birth. This son was the John Howard on whose 
name, by universal acclamation, the title of philanthropist has been 
bestowed—a title far surpassing any which heralds can record or 
sovereigns confer. We fancy we see him in his father’s garden—a 
lad not tall of his age, yet thin and spare, and rather fragile in his 
make and appearance, with large nose, and eyes sparkling with 
benevolence, and compressed lips, which show that he carries with 
him a will too strong to be easily broken. Hair cut short in front 
and curled behind, and costume somewhat like a full court dress 
in miniature, complete the portrait. Young Howard went to 


184 


SHADES AND ECHOES OF OLD LONDON. 


school for seven years with Mr. Worsley, a good Greek scholar at 
Hertford ; and was then removed to the care of Mr. Eames, who 
was tutor in a seminary conducted in Tenter-alley, Moorfields, for 
the education of both dissenting ministers and laymen. Mr. Eames 
possessed rare attainments, was a friend of Sir Isaac Newton, and was 
pronounced by Dr. Watts to be the most learned man he ever knew. 
But Howard, with these advantages, never turned out a scholar. 
Strange to say, he not only knew very little Latin, and less Greek, 
but he could never write his own language with propriety and 
correctness. But among his school associations there occurs one of 
those instances of generosity with which his history abounds. Mr. 
Densham was assistant to Mr. Eames, and won the respect and 
gratitude of Howard. The latter, just before setting out on his 
last and fatal journey, gave his old tutor an unlimited order to 
draw on his banker for whatever sum he might stand in need of; 
but the delicate conscientiousness of the poor scholar was as great 
as the benevolence of his rich friend ; for though at the time having 
only twelve or thirteen pounds a-year, he diminished his little 
capital rather than accept the discretionary privilege. 

Howard’s father did what few men in his circumstances are wont 
to do. Though he could leave his son a fortune, he determined to 
bring him up to trade, and therefore bound him apprentice to 
Messrs. Newnham and Shipley, wholesale grocers in Watling-street. 
For that old thoroughfare with a Roman name, we must confess 
some considerable penchant. Memories of the time when the great 
masters of the world had their provinces in Britain, and Roman 
manners and Roman hearts covered the banks of the Thames, all 
about that neighbourhood come thick and first before the mind’s 
eve, as we sometimes thread that allev-like avenue to London 
Bridge, in preference to the broader and more crowded highway of 
Cheapside. Milton’s shade, of course, meets us at the corner of 
Bread-street, and we like to think also of the grocer’s apprentice. 


JOHN HOWARD. 


185 


grown somewhat since we described him at Clapton; who amidst 
hogsheads of sugar and chests of tea was acquiring habits of appli¬ 
cation to business of no little use to him in after life. Meditating 
on this early portion of Howard’s history, our thoughts take the 
shape so well defined by his last biographer :—No man can fore¬ 
see even for an hour the turns of fortune. It is the part of wisdom 
to be armed and prepared for whatever may befall. Knowledge of 
a profession is no burden. A gentleman is not the less a gentle¬ 
man because he is conversant with law, with trade, with medicine ; 
nay, he is then more a gentleman than he otherwise could be, for 
he is more completely independent. He alone is perfect master of 
his actions who has a personal means of living—some art or craft, 
knowledge or skill, of which chance and change cannot divest him: 
wanting this, his present interest or his fears for the future must 
often modify his hopes and warp his conscience.” 

It would seem, however, as if Howard, who had been well schooled 
in filial obedience, only submitted to the drudgery of the grocer’s 
warehouse, without any liking for scales and ledgers, inasmuch as 
we find that almost immediately upon his father’s death he procured 
the surrender of his indentures. His apprenticeship obligations 
were early cancelled upon the payment of a sum of money; but 
the youth, freed from the yoke of servitude, was by no means 
disposed to riot in his new-found liberty: with a steadiness and 
care such as belong to the ripest years of human life, he attended 
to the preservation, improvement, and proper use of the patrimony 
he inherited. He personally superintended the repairs of the 
Clapton house; and as we walk through the main street of that 
now populous suburb, we think of Howard’s visit to the paternal 
abode, and his recollections amidst the scenes of his boyhood, and 
call to mind how daily he might be seen close to a buttress of the 
garden wall, at the hour when the baker was passing with his cart, 
buying a loaf of the man, and flinging it over the wall, and then, 


186 


SHADES AND ECHOES OF OLD LONDON. 


with a laugh, saying to his father’s gardener, the playmate probably 
of his own earlier days, “ Harry, see if there is not something for 
you there among the cabbages.” The frolicsomeness of Howard in 
his youth bore the stamp of true kindliness of disposition, and that 
punctuality in engagements which marked the entire history of 
Howard in his manhood. 

But he did not live in the Clapton house—that was let. His 
own place of abode was Stoke Newington. He had lodgings there, 
where he studied and improved his mind. The delicate state of 
his health required more attentive nursing than he found in the 
house where he first lodged, so he removed to apartments under the 
roof of Mrs. Sarah Lowne, a widow of a little property, residing in 
Church-street, who devoted her time to the care and comfort of 
the young invalid. He had some rather strange notions, and when 
they shaped themselves into the form of duty, they always rested 
upon a very firm substratum of conscientiousness. Though he was 
only twenty-five, he considered that he could justly repay the lady 
for her kindness, though she was fifty-two, by nothing less than the 
offer of his hand in marriage, with the resolution of promoting the 
happiness of her life who had saved his. The eccentric proposal 
was at first refused, but being strongly urged, was at length 
accepted, and Howard amply redeemed his vow. He always 
expressed himself as having been happy in his choice, though his 
domestic enjoyment was of a different character from that which he 
afterwards so richly reaped during the ten years of wedded com¬ 
panionship he spent with his second wife—his beloved Henrietta. 
The first Mrs. Howard died in 1755, between two and three 
years after her marriage, and lies buried in St. Mary’s White¬ 
chapel. Howard felt lonely when this tie was dissolved, and 
broke up housekeeping, giving away his furniture to the poor of 
the village. 

The old gardener we have mentioned received for his share a 


JOHN HOWARD. 


187 


bedstead and bedding, a table and half a dozen chairs, together 
with a new scythe—a dividend of 'the philanthropist’s relics which, 
at a subsequent period, when the donor’s fame had spread far and 
wide, became mightily enhanced in value. We have no means of 
ascertaining the house where Howard lived at Stoke Newington, 
but we know where he worshipped. We have a vivid recollection 
of the old Independent chapel there, as it appeared about twenty 
years ago, then much in the same state it had been in from the 
beginning. The small pulpit, surmounted with a huge sounding 
board, and the tall-backed pews and heavy galleries, spoke of other 
days, constituting an appropriate background for the figure of young 
Mr. Howard in earnest prayer, or reverently listening to his pastor, 
the Rev. Micaiah Townsend. The man of whom we write, it should 
be remembered, was eminent for his spiritual piety, no less than 
his active benevolence. He breathed through his letters and 
journals a devotional fervour which, while they rebuke the languid 
religious sentiments of frigid professors of Christianity, are calcu¬ 
lated to excite a sympathetic ardour in the hearts of all who have 
any spiritual sensibility. The motto on his monument in Carding- 
ton church, written by himself, was expressive of his evangelical 
creed, and his tone of humble confidence from first to last, “ Mv 
hope is in Christ.” 

Howard removed to lodgings in St. Paul’s churchyard, whence 
he proceeded to the continent, and where, we presume, he after¬ 
wards returned. That visit to the continent was a very eventful 
one. He was taken prisoner, and barbarously treated, and detained 
for some months a captive in France. There he saw and felt what 
entered into his soul, and afterwards helped to impel him onward 
in his astonishing career of prison visitation and reform. So strong 
was the confidence he inspired, he was permitted to return to 
England to negotiate with the government for his own liberation. 
He had pledged his honour to go back to prison if he did not 


188 


SHADES AND ECHOES OF OLD LONDON. 


succeed: and when his friends congratulated him on his escape, he 
desired them to defer their expressions of joy, till he had obtained 
an honourable discharge of his obligations. So the shadow of 
Howard passes us in St. Paul’s churchyard, out on parole, like 
another Kegulus, prepared to re-enter the land of captivity if he 
cannot obtain liberty upon terms fair and just. A right noble 
study is that for the men of commerce, and for all sorts of men 
who pass by St. Paul’s every day: My word is my bond. This 
sentiment, embodied in the conduct even of a heathen, ought surely 
to guide believers in the Bible, which commends him who “ sweareth 
to his own hurt, and changeth not.” 

In tracing the other London haunts of Howard, we must plunge 
into the prison world of the last century. Elsewhere in the metro¬ 
polis, what we know of him for the rest of his life is next to 
nothing. It is a wonderful progress we have to make, as we follow 
this illustrious individual in his circumnavigation of charity, “ not 
to survey the sumptuousness of palaces or the stateliness of temples, 
not to make accurate measurements of the remains of ancient 
grandeur, nor to form a scale of the curiosity of modern art, not to 
collect medals or collate manuscripts ; but to dive into the depths 
of dungeons, to plunge into the infection of hospitals, to survey the 
mansions of sorrow and pain, to take the gauge and dimensions of 
misery, depression, and contempt, to remember the forgotten, to 
attend to the neglected, to visit the forsaken, and to compare and 
collate the distresses of all men.” The Augean stables which 
Hercules undertook to cleanse is no unapt symbol of the dens of 
corruption, tyranny, cruelty, and vice, which Howard resolved to 
purify and transform, when he entered on his great work of prison 
reformation. In his book on prisons, he gives the result of his 
earlier visits to those in London; and from that source, aided by 
kindred documents, we derive the materials of what for the most 
part will form the rest of this paper. The following passages have 


JOHN HOWARD. 


189 


a graphic character about them, and enable us to catch a glimpse 
of the philanthropist while engaged in his errands of mercy :—“ At 
each visit I entered every room, cell, and dungeon, with a memo¬ 
randum book in my hand, in which I noted particulars on the spot.” 
“ I have been frequently asked what precautions I used to preserve 



myself from infection in the prisons and hospitals which I visit. I 
here answer, next to the free goodness and mercy of the Author of 
my being, temperance and cleanliness are my preservatives. Trust¬ 
ing in Divine Providence, and believing myself in the way of my 
duty, I visit the most noxious cells ; and while thus employed, 1 
fear no evil. I never enter an hospital or prison before breakfast, 
and in an offensive room I seldom draw my breath deeply.” 

A general description of the London prisons by Howard, gives a 
fearful idea of the neglect of discipline which prevailed when he 
began his researches. The statistics which Howard supplies relative 


















































190 


SHADES AND ECHOES OF OLD LONDON 


to the prison world of London, afford terrible insight into the 
miseries experienced by the captives. 

Newgate was rebuilt between 1778 and 1780. As then erected, 
and as it still remains, it presents a great improvement upon its 
predecessor; but, as Howard observed, it was far from being a model, 
and at the commencement of the present century the gaol fever 
broke out there, which he predicted would be the result of its 
defective and faulty arrangements. One shudders on entering the 
condemned cells which Howard opens for our inspection. There 
are upon each of the three floors five cells, all vaulted. The strong 
stone-wall is lined all round with planks studded with broad-headed 
nails; and such is the aspect of these darksome, solitary abodes, 
that criminals, before unmoved, have been struck with horror, 
and have shed tears on entering them. Fifteen condemned cells 
appear to us, now that the criminal law has been reformed, a 
most unnecessary provision; but alas! when Howard wrote, they 
seemed not more than to suffice for the demand which was created 
by the Draconic severity of the judicial code. In twelve years 467 
executions took place in London, including two by burning, the two 
culprits being women, one condemned for murder, the other for 
coining. 

The hardened criminal and the juvenile offender were closely 
associated; and if the latter resisted his initiation into the mystery 
of the prison-house, he underwent a mock trial by some impudent 
offender, who assumed the office of judge, and tied a knotted towel 
on his head to imitate a wig. Prisoners were requested to pay 
“ garnish,” as contributions to riotous entertainments were called; 
and the miserable creature who had no money was stripped of his 
clothes, in discharge of the villainous demand. 

A singular relic of the ancient administration of torture is 
mentioned by Howard as continuing in a form which was observed 
in his time. When prisoners capitally convicted at the Old 


JOHN HOWARD. 


191 


Bailey were brought np to receive sentence, and the judge asked, 
“ What have yon to say why judgment of death and execution 
should not be awarded against you?” the executioner slipped a 
whipcord noose about the thumbs. 

The Fleet Prison stood not far off Newgate, and there the 
philanthropist discloses some startling scenes of disorder. “ They 
play in the court-yard at skittles, mississippi, fives, tennis, etc.; 
and not only the prisoners, for I saw among them several butchers 
and others from the market, who are admitted here as at another 
public-house. The same may be seen in many other prisons where 
the gaoler keeps or lets the tap. Besides the inconvenience of this 
to prisoners, the frequenting a prison lessens the dread of being 
confined in one. On Monday night there was a wine club, on 
Thursday night a beer club, each lasting usually till one or two in 
the morning. I need not say how much riot they occasion; how 
the sober prisoners and those that are sick are annoyed by them.” 

We are next conducted to New Ludgate, in Bishopsgate-street, 
a prison for debtors, free of the city, and for clergymen, proctors, 
and attorneys. The common side debtors are in two large garrets, 
the forest and dock, which have no fire-places. The prison is out of 
repair, the walls and ceilings very black, being never whitewashed. 
There is no infirmary, no bath. It was in reference to this debtors’ 
prison, that the Spectator says: “ Passing under Ludgate the other 
day, I heard a voice bawling for charity, which I thought I had 
somewhere heard before. Coming near to the gate, the prisoner 
called me by my name, and desired I would throw something into 
the box.” Happily it is all now swept away, and so is the Poultry 
compter, with regard to which Howard remarks: “ At the roof of 
the prison are spacious leads, on which the master’s side debtors 
are sometimes allowed to walk; but then the keeper is with them, 
for the leads communicate with the adjoining houses, one of which 
affords a ready escape from so close a prison in case of fire.” From 


192 


SnADES AND ECHOES OF OLD LONDON. 


this specimen of heedlessness about the security of the prisoners, 
Howard next takes us to the Wood*street compter, where all are 
kept secure enough ; there we are shown a room about 35 feet by 
18, with twenty-three beds ranged round the walls, on three tiers 
of shelves. At one of his visits, he informs us there were in this 
room thirty-nine debtors, seven of them with their wives and 
children. The room was swarming with vermin. There was a 
chapel in the court, and under it a taproom. Within the unwhole¬ 
some precincts of this place, eleven prisoners died in 1773. 

We pass on next to Bridewell, where there was no court, and 
fresh air could be obtained only by means of a hand-ventilator, with 
a tube to each room of the women’s ward. It enjoyed a privilege 
peculiar to itself, that of having an allowance of rye straw once a 
month. “No other prison in London,” says Howard, “has any 
straw or bedding.” In the new prison, Clerkenwell, our reformer 
notices some commendable arrangements, but condemned certain 
cabins or cupboards, five in number, only 10 feet by 5 in measure¬ 
ment, each with a barrack-bed for two prisoners : miserably close 
and unwholesome cells, having no air but from grates over the 
doors into the gallery. On visiting the Clerkenwell Bridewell in 
1777, he found thirty convicts, committed for a term of years. 
Some of these, and others besides, were sick, and complained of 
their feet, which were actually turned black. In 1783 five were ill, 
one was dying with little or no covering on, and in another room 
one was laid out dead. In the women’s sick ward, twelve were 
lying in their clothes on the barrack-bedstead and on the floor 
without any bedding whatever. In this strange tour about London, 
which, in proportion as the scenes described shock our sensibilities, 
must have been to our philanthropist a series of tortures, we arrive 
next at Whitechapel prison, which presents nothing noteworthy, 
except the fact of the debtors hanging out a begging-box from a 
little closet in the front of the house, and attending to it each in 


JOHN HOWARD. 


193 


turn. It brought in only a few pence daily, of which pittance none 
partook but those who on entrance paid the keeper half a crown, 
and treated the prisoners with half a gallon of beer. We hasten by 
the Tower Hamlets’ gaol, in Wellclose-square, and St. Catherine’s 
gaol, which Howard, though he had visited them repeatedly, only 
briefly notices; nor can we tarry at the Savoy, with its military 
guard-rooms, where the philanthropist had seen many sick of the 
gaol distemper, but where he afterwards found a decided improve¬ 
ment in health, owing to better sanitary regulations. We must, 
however, relate a striking incident which will ever associate with 
the history of the Savoy, the remembrance of Howard’s amazing 
personal courage and influence over prisoners. During an alarming 
riot there, the men confined had killed two of their keepers, and no 
person dared to approach them, until the intrepid philanthropist 
undertook to do so. Gaolers and friends endeavoured to dissuade 
him; but in he went to two horrid ruffians, whose savage spirits 
he so completely subdued by his persuasions, that they allowed 
themselves to be quietly conducted back to their cells. 

At Tothill Fields’ Bridewell, he informs us, the prisoners washed 
their hands and faces every morning, before they came for their 
allowance—a practice that must have been very grateful to him, for 
he ever enforced the strictest cleanliness on those over whom he 
had any control; and we remember hearing from an old man, who 
lived at Cardington, how he would notice and reward the children 
whose hands were clean; and that he once said to a cottager who 
was not over-fond of self-ablution, “John Basset, go home and wash 
your hands, or no dinner.” Howard describes Westminster Gate¬ 
house as empty, but the King’s Bench, Southwark, as full to 
overflowing. It was so crowded in the summer of 1776, that a 
prisoner paid five shillings a-week for half a bed, and many lay in 
the chapel. The debtors, with their families, two-thirds of whom 
were within the prison walls, amounted to a population of 1004. 


194 


SHADES AND ECHOES OF OLD LONDON. 


But, perhaps, of all the London prisons, the Marshaisea was the 
worst, where debtors and pirates were huddled together in dark 
narrow rooms, four men in each, sleeping in two beds. The tap 
room was let to a prisoner, and there the inmates of the place, at 
times, slept on the floor; and to show the habits of drinking which 
prevailed, it is sufficient to repeat a statement by Howard, that one 
Sunday 600 pots of beer were brought in from a neighbouring 
public-house, because the prisoners did not like the beverage 
supplied by the tapster within the walls. The spot where we close 
this melancholy ramble, amidst the scenes of prison life three- 
quarters of a century since, is the Borough Compter, the last place 
of confinement of the whole number in London which Howard 
describes. It was out of repair and ruinous, had no infirmary, and 
no bedding; while most of the inmates were poor creatures from the 
court of conscience who lay there till their debts were paid. 

It is dreary enough to pursue this pilgrimage from prison to 
prison ; but it is instructive as an illustration of the fallen state 
of humanity. Where but in a world where tilings are sadly 
out of order, and the relations of the creature to the Creator are 
disturbed, could such flagrant abuses prevail under the colour of 
political justice ? Nor can we help congratulating our country, and 
blessing the God of nations, for the improved state of things 
existing in our prisons at the present day, mainly through the 
instrumentality of him whose shadow we have been following. It 
was a tremendous stronghold of iniquity that he dared to assault, 
enough to make the courage quail in even a braver heart by nature 
than his own ; but sustained by help from heaven he nobly carried 
through his mission, and crowned it with a success which, if not 
complete, was signal. His life was a truly earnest one, a battle 
with wrong, and an errand of richest mercy. ’Tis pleasant to 
follow poets and painters through their career of elegant literature 
and art; but we feel ourselves to be in a far different presence, one 


JOHN HOWARD. 


195 


that gives us inspiring and solemn views of human duty, as we 
track the footsteps of John Howard. He has something more 
serious to do than to gather flowers and echo back nature’s sweet 
music; he has to trample on serpents, to rend asunder chains, and 
to let rays of light and love into the cells of the captive. Appro¬ 
priate is the statue to him in St. Paul’s, with huge iron manacles 
and fetters under-foot, and a great key in his hand. But, after all, 
Howard only walked at a humble distance in the footsteps of Him 
whom the Hebrew seer described as binding up the broken¬ 
hearted, proclaiming liberty to the captives, and the opening of the 
prison-doors to them that were bound. Howard’s benevolence was 
but a reflected beam of his, who gave himself for the redemption of 
our race out of a bondage worse than that of English or even 
Algerian gaols. His beneficent course was only an outgrowth of 
the gospel lie embraced. 

The story of Howard’s personal exploits almost exhausts our 
store of London associations in connection with his name. We 

i 

remember only one more, of a very different character from the 
foregoing, With this we must close our paper. Great Ormond- 
street has been the residence of several celebrities. There lived 
Hicks, the learned author of the Thesaurus ; there lived Dr. Mead, 
and Dr. Stukeley, and Dr. Hawkesworth; there, too, lived Lord 
Chancellor Thurlow, when he was robbed of the great seal by a 
gang of housebreakers; and there, too, for a little while, Howard 
took up his London abode, in a house left him by his sister. While 
there, a female of rather forbidding appearance made repeated in¬ 
effectual attempts to see the philanthropist. At last she succeeded, 
and gained admittance to the library. He thought, from the 
visitor’s look, that one of the other sex was come to him disguised, 
with some evil intent. So he rung the bell and intimated a wish 
that the servant should remain in the room. But it was quite 
needless; for the stranger turned out to be a real woman, but a 


196 


SHADES AND ECHOES OF OLD LONDON. 


rather enthusiastic worshipper: for she first poured forth a flood of 
extravagant compliments, and then took her leave, declaring that, 
after having seen the man she so much admired, she could go home 
and die in peace. 

Christian principle was the foundation of all the excellences of John 
Howard. He did not adopt religion in later life, when wearied of 
the world. It was not in his case a last resort after the exhaustion 
of every other method of seeking happiness. He was the child of 
religious parents. His father had paid attention to his spiritual 
culture. He, in early youth, felt the charms of the service of God, 
The fresh spring tide of his being was devoted to the honour and 
glory of his Maker. Thus he had a safeguard among such tempta¬ 
tions as beset a young man of property entering upon life. When 
he became, according to common expression, “his own master,” 
happily, he felt that there was a very important sense in which he 
was by no means his own. Freed from the restraint of his guar¬ 
dians, he was conscious of the obligations which he owed his God. 
The earliest portions of his diary breathe a spirit of fervent devotion, 
which suffered no abatement, but rather increased, during the 
subsequent periods of his active life. Religion did not occupy 
some inferior place in his heart, but it was enthroned in his 
affections, and ever exerted over his whole nature a supreme sway. 
He observed the Divine order of duty, “ Seek ye first the kingdom 
of God, and his righteousness.” No one can study Howard’s 
history without discovering that religion, in his estimation, was the 
first law, the chief interest, the grand end, and the main happiness 
of life. Nor was his religion of the ceremonial cast, of the phari- 
saical order, of the rationalistic stamp—it was thoroughly evangeli¬ 
cal. It was religion such as is taught in the New Testament, such 
as was exemplified in the lives of the apostles, such as is produced 
by the Spirit of God. Its fresh, earnest, impassioned expression is 
found in the following extract from his journal, written at the 


JOHN HOWARD. 


197 


Hague one Sunday night:—“ Oh the wonders of redeeming love i 
Some faint hope I have, through redeeming mercy, in the perfect 
righteousness, the full atoning sacrifice, that I shall ere long be 
made the monument of the rich grace and mercy of God, through 
the Divine Kedeemer. Oh, shout, my soul, ‘Grace, grace, free, 
sovereign, rich, and unbounded grace!’ Not I, not I, a hell¬ 
deserving creature ; but where sin has abounded, I trust grace 
superabounds. Some hope have I—what joy in that hope !—that 
nothing shall separate my soul from the love of God in Christ 
Jesus. Let not, my soul, the interests of a moment engross thy 
thoughts, or be preferred to thy interests. Look forward to that 
glory which will be revealed to those who are faithful unto death. 
My soul, walk thou with God, be faithful, hold on, hold out; and 
then—what words can utter ?” Thus in broken sentences did his 
pious feelings find their vent. Thus they came from his heart in 
sobs and gushes, showing what a fulness of evangelical sentiment 
there lay deep within him, like a well of water springing up unto 
everlasting life. It blended with all the other parts of his character, 
and Avas the vital spring of his wonderful benevolence. That 
benevolence so self-sacrificing, so humble, so irrespecti\ T e of all 
temporal reAvards, can be accounted for only by recognising it as 
the fruit of his faith in Christ, that incarnation of Divine Love. 

Such AA'as Howard’s character; his end was in harmony Avith it: 
he died upon one of his missions of mercy—indeed he fell a martyr 
to his philanthropy. He left England for Russia in 1789, on 
his way to the East to make inquiry into the nature of the plague, 
Avith a vieAv to the suggestion of remedies and preventives. The 
strength and elevation of his Christian faith in the prospect of his 
perilous enterprise Avere sublimely manifest in his Avell-known 
Avords—“ The Avay to heaven from Grand Cairo is as near as from 
London.” On reaching Cherson, in Russia, he Avas seized Avith 
fever caught Avhile attending a young lady Avhom, from his well 


198 


SHADES AND ECHOES OF OLD LONDON. 


known skill in medicine, he had been requested to visit. He had 
to ride several miles on a dray-horse in the midst of rain ; and this, 
in connexion with the contagious nature of his patient’s disease, 
prepared his way to the grave, just after she had been placed there. 
As death advanced, he contemplated it with perfect composure. 
Admiral Priestman, who greatly loved and honoured his fellow- 
countryman, showed him the most devoted attention, and sought to 
direct his thoughts from the prospect of a fatal termination to his 
disease. “Priestman,” said Howard, “you style this a dull con¬ 
versation, and endeavour to divert my mind from dwelling on the 
thought of death ; but I entertain very different sentiments. Death 
has no terrors for me; it is an event I always look to with cheer¬ 
fulness, if not with pleasure : and be assured the subject is more 
grateful to me than any other.” He then told his friend that there 
was no hope ; that his constitution could not survive the attack,— 
he was already too much reduced. “ I have no method of lowering 
my nourishment,” he added, “and, therefore, I must die. It is 
only such jolly fellows as you, Priestman, that get over these 
fevers.” The old sailor wept, and was silent,—when Howard 
proceeded to give directions respecting his burial, in beautiful 
harmony with the humility of his character. He selected a spot 
in the village of Dauphiney—“ There,” said he, “lay me quietly in 
the earth, place a sun-dial over my grave, and let me be forgotten.” 
It was the 20th of January, 1790, about eight o clock at night, 
that his spirit took its departure from the scene of its labours and 
sufferings, to find the rest, and receive the recompense, graciously 
promised by the Lord of the church to all who trust in him, and do 
his will, and love his ways. 


199 


ECHOES OF WESTMINSTER HALL. 


I. AXE AND HAMMER. 

There is no music like the voice of an echo. Not the sweetness, 
richness, or grandeur of its tones, but its mysteriousness, gives it 
pre-eminence. The idea suggested of some invisible spirit or spirits 
in the distance, responding to words uttered, or sounds produced, 
imparts to it a strange and fascinating interest. The memorv 
of many a pleasant spot in fair old England will recur to our 
readers, where not long since, amidst hills and woods, and beside 
river streams, they whiled away some pleasant moments, abstracted 
from busy toils and feverish cares, in listening to strains evoked 
from the haunts of an echo, by bugle note or human words. How 
it rolled, and rolled, and died away! thunders softening into 
whispers. And welcome are the reverberations now caught by the 
mental ear, and the pictures of the landscape adorned with 
mountain, field, and flood, with cottage, tower, and tree, now present 
to the mental eye, as the quondam tourist, in his easy chair, with 
loose coat and slippered feet, close to his warm fireside, goes over his 
travels afresh, repeating in fancy what has been his in realization. 

Perhaps of nobler echoes than any our own land can boast of, 
not a few readers may be thinking, as the title page of these papers 
catches their eye—theLurley on the Rhine, with its majestic seven¬ 
fold voice, throwing down upon your ear, in that romantic rock 
gorge of the grandest of German rivers, successive undulations 



200 


ECHOES OF WESTMINSTER HALL. 


of mysterious sound—or the Koenigsee, not far from Salzburg, that 
most enchanting of all enchanting lakes, where rock and mountain, 
forest and water, are arranged in forms ol perfect beauty and in¬ 
comparable grandeur, and where nature’s rarest music mingles with 
nature’s rarest painting. 

But not of such echoes will these chapters treat. To no romantic 
spot do we purpose to conduct you, but through the crowded, noisy, 
unpicturesque thoroughfare of Parliament-street down to West¬ 
minster Hall, the lobby of the Senate and the Law Courts. And 
we promise that, though the spot itself be unromantic, some most 
romantic echoes may be heard within its walls. Or, to make the 
matter still more easy, and. we hope agreeable, our endeavour shall 
be to bring Westminster Hall to you; and while you retain your 
comfortable position by the fireside, you shall see the fine old 
building, more as it has been than as it is, and shall hear echoes of 
doings within its precincts, gay and grave—our pages serving the 
office of hill or mountains, in the reverberation of sounds which 
have long since been silent, but which we shall strive to reproduce 
for your instruction no less than your amusement. 

To catch the earliest echoes, we must go a long way back into 
the night of time, further into the distant past than Norman or 
Saxon ages. Well, then, here we are on an island, or rather islet, 
covered with rushes, weeds, brushwood, and thorns, something like, 
only wilder and larger than, those bits of land that still peer out of 
the Thames, the refuge of the rat and water bird. It lies by the 
side of the old river, whose waters creep around it; and, untenanted 
at present by man, its only echoes are the croak of the frog or the 
cry of the lapwing. But there is some sort of human being coming 
near it now, with painted skin, like a South Sea islander, and 
paddling an odd sort of bark, neither boat nor canoe. It is no 
other than one of our venerable British forefathers, in his coracle, 
come out for a day’s fishing; not, however, practising such tactics 


AXE AND HAMMER. 


201 


in his art as would entitle the worthy to hold place in the Isaak 
Walton line of anglers. 

While the splashing of the oar dies away, as he takes his de¬ 
parture to some Celtic village not very far off—let us leap some 
ages further on to Saxon times, when we find monks very busy 
clearing away the rushes, and digging up stumps and roots. 
The foundation stones of an abbey and church are laid in this 
island, which they call Thorney; and now, in what had been a 
terrible place — in loco terribili —for the first time you hear axe and 
hammer; for Sebert, king of the Saxons, having embraced Chris¬ 
tianity, and having been baptized by Mellitus, Bishop of London, 
immediately builds a church to the honour of God and St. Peter on 
the west side of London. This is in the seventh century. And 
now there are echoes of worship, the chant of psalm and prayer, 
stealing over the star-lit waters of the Thames, while the illumi¬ 
nated altar pours its light through the rude windows. The build¬ 
ing is heavy, rude, unadorned, with massive columns and round 
arches, such as one sees in mediaeval MSS., or finds in lingering 
vestiges here and there in parts of our very oldest churches. 

An odd storv is told, in connexion with that first sound of axe 
and hammer in the Isle of Thorney—a dreamy fiction—a poetical 
legend, the like of which may be heard at Venice and other places ; 
and, though now rated at its real value, it was once believed, and, 
we doubt not, was often told in days of yore, by the monks and 
other folks at Westminster, as they gazed on the later glories of 
the Abbey Church, whose title, as Minster, gave name to the city. 
It runs as follows. A fisherman was met by a stranger on the 
opposite bank of the Thames, and requested to ferry him over, and 
wait on the side of the Isle of Thorney till he should return. Ac¬ 
companied by a host of angels, this mysterious personage entered 
the new church and consecrated it by the light of a supernatural 
radiance, which filled the walls. The fisherman, startled at the 


202 


ECHOES OF WESTMINSTER HALL. 


sight of this illumination, trembled at the return of the wonderful 
priest, who now announced himself to be no other than the apostle 
Peter, and told him to go at daybreak to Mellitus, the bishop, and 
assure him of the consecration. He further gave the fisherman a 
command to cast a net into the river, and to convey one of the 
fish to the bishop, assuring him that he should never want fish so 
long as he dedicated a tenth to the church. A miraculous draught 
was the consequence ; and Mellitus, on examining the new edifice, 
found the proofs of the apostle’s visit in the marks of the extin¬ 
guished tapers and of the chrism. So much for mediaeval fables. 

But our business is with Westminster Hall, not Westminster 
Abbey; yet a notice of the founding of the one seems proper as an 
introduction to the founding of the other, for it originally belonged 
to the palatial residence of the Saxon kings, which grew up under 
the shadow of the Abbey, when church and state were joined in 
closest bonds. In Canute’s time, we find a kingly palace at West¬ 
minster, and many think that it was out of a window in this palace 
that Edric Streon, beheaded by order of the monarch, was cast into 
the Thames. 

Axe and hammer are heard loudly enough at Westminster in the 
days of Edward the Confessor. The church and monastery are 
reconstructed; and we are not far off the truth if we add, that 
about the same time the palace was rebuilt, or enlarged and im¬ 
proved, as we have clear proof of the king’s residence at West¬ 
minster. Heaps of stone, and plenty of scaffolding, and labourers 
in abundance, with all the buzz and activity which surround a 
rising edifice, are obvious enough on Thorney Island, which may 
now properly change its name. A pile of Saxon, or, more correctly, 
of Norman architecture—for Edward had a taste for and cultivated 
Norman art, and Matthew Paris speaks of the building as a new 
kind of construction—takes the place of thorns and briars, and 
earlier masonry and scenes of monastic magnificence and regal 


AXE AND HAMMER. 


203 


pomp blend together. Edward pressed on the work very earnestly, 
having appropriated to it a tenth of his entire substance in gold, 
silver, cattle, and all other possessions. In the new palatial abode, 
the confessor prince spends much of his time, bolds counsels, seeks 
refreshment amid the cares of empire in religious meditation and 
prayer, has strange visions, and at last sickens and dies in the 
painted chamber—so tradition says. 

The Norman came and took possession of this kingly home. 
The first William left it to the second. There was, no doubt, some 
large hall for state and festival all along; but now we meet for 
the first time with the Great Hall, which, altered, indeed rebuilt, 
may, however, be said still to remain. There are faint relics of its 
Norman character in the outer walls, in the plain thin buttress, 
and the string course level with the window-sills, which the works 
of a later period did not efface. Rufus had gigantic architectural 
ideas, if we are to believe the story told by Matthew Paris. The 
red-haired king came home from Normandy, and held his court in 
the New Hall. The warriors, barons, and squires thought it very 
vast, and expressed their wonder at so grand a place. “ It is not 
half so large,” quoth he of the red hair, “as it should have been : 
it is only a bed-chamber compared with what I intend to build.” 
What he meant to build no one knows ; probably he did not know 
himself. Certainly his subjects would not have wished him to 
carry out any further these extravagant notions of what befitted a 
kingly abode; “for already,” as Fabyan says, “lie filled the 
spiritual tie and temporaltie with unreasonable tasks and tributes, 
the which he spent upon the Tower of London and the making of 
Westminster Hall.” 

Time rolls on: Rufus dies, and a long line of kings after him. 
There are divers architectural and other artistic works in West¬ 
minster ; stone-cutters, and painters, and carvers of wood, ply their 
toils in adorning the royal chambers; and the Great Hall, ot 


204 


ECHOES OF WESTMINSTER HALL. 


course, comes in for some share in the outlay of skill and money ; for 
it is often used, and one would think, from what we shall see hereafter, 
somewhat roughly. But we have no particular account of changes 
in structure and decoration till we arrive at the reign of Richard n., 
when axe and hammer are heard again more loudly than ever. 

The present Westminster Hall is the work of that unjust and 
unhappy monarch. When the decorated style was prevalent— 
when Gothic in England was in its glory and perfection—when the 
spring-tide of early English had ripened into summer beauty, 
before the rich but decaying autumn season of the perpendicular 
order had set in—the mason piled up the walls and ornamental 
flying buttresses, and the carpenter threw over them the broad 
oaken roof of cunning work, and the carver shaped the mullions 
and transoms of the magnificent end-window. A building of rare 
grandeur is this Westminster Hall even at the present day, though 
it lacks the beautiful carving and rows of statues with which it was 
once adorned; a sight of exceeding splendour it must have been 
on days of royal festival, when the space of seventy-four feet in 
breadth, and two hundred and seventy in length—the roof of one 
span, with no columns to support it—was covered with the gorgeous 
retinue of a mediaeval monarch. It was two years in building, and 
the expense was defrayed out of moneys levied on strangers and 
exiles, who, on payment of these demands, obtained licence to 
remain in the English realm, “John Boterell being clerk of the 
works.” So that England was a land of refuge then as now—a 
home for the homeless, a sanctuary for the oppressed and for the 
criminal—yielding a precious boon, not without some inconvenience 
and even evil, but the latter far less than the former; only in 
Richard’s time people had to pay for what they may now get free; 
and Westminster Hall thus becomes to us a monument of the 
unchanging sacredness of our old English soil, and of despotic 
exactions now happily known no longer. 


AXE AND HAMMER. 


205 


While we listen to the echo of axe and hammer, as Richard’s 
workmen are engaged on the new Great Hall, a novel scene occurs 
just outside of it. Parliaments meet at Westminster, and have 
been wont to assemble in this large old chamber of king Rufus ; 
but now that the building is for a while unfit for use, a temporary 
shed adjoining it is employed for the English senators, The place 
is open at both ends and sides, that people may hear and see all 
that is going on ; and “to secure freedom of debate,” as we are told, 
4000 Cheshire archers with bent bows, and arrows notched to 
shoot, surround the house. And so parliament men, in the reign 
of King Richard n., appear the mere tools of his despotism ; but it 
is only for a little while. Our constitution in the hands of brave 
Englishmen cannot be permanently crushed, and therefore, not 
long afterwards, in the very hall then approaching its completion, 
Barons and Commons plucked the crown from the head of the foolish 
and misguided tyrant. The hall was completed before Christmas, 
1398, when festival was kept in it with right royal splendour and 
extravagance, with “ every day’s justing and running at the tilt, 
whereunto resorted such a number of people that there was every 
day spent xxv or xxviii oxen, and ccc sheep, besides fowl without 
number. Also the king caused a garment for himself to be made 
of gold, silver, and precious stones, to the value of 3000 marks.” 

A long pause in the architectural history of Westminster Hall 
here follows. No great changes take place in the building till our 
own time. Axe and hammer have, indeed, often been heard in 
the building; but they have been employed in the construction of 
scaffolding and benches and other appurtenances connected with 
•coronations, festivities, and state trials, of which this hall has been 
the theatre, and to notices of which the subsequent papers will be 
devoted. 

Never since the thorns were cleared out on Thorney Island 
have there been such architectural works going on there as 


203 


ECHOES OF WESTMINSTER HALL. 


within the last few years past. In spite of defects, which it 
is easy to point out, the new Houses of Parliament form a 
pile of buildings of great beauty and magnificence. With them 
we have nothing to do in this sketch, save as Westminster 
Hall forms one of their grand entrances. It is now, in fact, a 
gigantic porch to the two houses. Axe and hammer, under 
Mr. Barry’s design and superintendence, have somewhat changed 
the hall of the second Bichard. No more fitted for banquet- 
ings, the wall and window where the dais once stood have been 
removed, and a noble flight of - steps now occupy their place, 
connected with a vestibule or gallery, through which you pass 
into the Senate chambers of the nation. An enormous arch 
spans the ascending steps, and behind is a huge window, propor¬ 
tioned to the architectural magnitudes around it. On the left 
hand side of these truly royal stairs is another archway cut through 
the wall, leading into a profusely decorated corridor, ending in the 
lobby of the House of Commons. 

In other respects, the Hall remains as it was, leaving ample 
scope for genius and taste, while preserving intact its ancient 
features, to enrich the venerable Hall, and even relieve the broad 
surface of the floor, with monuments and memorials of men and 
deeds, which have given a fame to the place far surpassing what 
anything merely artistic can confer. Nowhere, within the same 
number of square feet, do such hosts of memories, born on the spot, 
come starting up to challenge and instruct, to interest and awe, to 
delight and confound the well-instructed and thoughtful visitor. 
The antiquary, the lawyer, the statesman, the philosopher, are here 
all reminded of something associated with their own studies ; and 
such as aspire to none of these titles, but have only average in¬ 
telligence, and kinship with human kind, and a heart to feel for 
the joys and sorrows of by-gone ages, may here gather lessons of 
moral wisdom, and learn the vanity of earthly things, and take 


AXE AND HAMMEE. 


207 


warning from the ways of ambition, and smile and weep by turns 
as the pageant and the trial in this strange phantasmagoria of 
English historical romance in succession come and flit away. To 
catch echoes of the past, will be our endeavour ; and among them, 
we shall strive especially to seize and fix on those which proceed 
from royal feastings—men of the marble chair—bench and bar— 
old politics and parliaments—early state trials—the seven bishops, 
and an Indian viceroy. 


208 


ECHOES OF WESTMINSTER HALL. 


II. ROYAL FEASTINGS. 

Walk down to Westminster in winter time, on some cold damp 
day, when the inhabitants of the city and liberties are regaled with 
a pea-soup fog, and barristers, attorneys, and clients may be seen 
emerging out of the thick and sticky atmosphere within the huge 
and solemn doorway of the great hall, in dim shadowy form, and 
with grim, anxious countenances. The outside vapour has pene¬ 
trated inside the yawning space of the ancient building, in thinner 
consistency, indeed, but yet of sufficient shade and density to 
obscure somewhat the massive oak rafters of the roof, the stretch 
of the walls, the great southern flight of steps, and the figures 
of lawyers and litigants passing out and in. Nobody is there 
but those whom a subpoena, a fee, or the hope of a verdict, has 
brought to the spot; and the little knots of such parties, by the 
entrances to the Courts of Common Pleas or Exchequer, only 
serve to give a greater aspect of desertion and gloom to the rest 
of the scene. Fear, vexation, and annoyance are painted upon 
more faces than shew hope, contentment, and satisfaction; and, 
altogether, the genius of the place if it has any fascination, is of the 
Medusa kind, and one is glad to get away from Westminster to 
a snug home and a bright fireside. 

Or, drop into this same relic of England’s olden times some 
drizzly night when parliament is sitting, and some heavy business 
debate is wearing out the hours on empty benches, and how 
melancholy looks the hall, despite of gas-lamps, and how triste 
is the silence, only at rare intervals broken by the footfall of a 
tired-out member eager to get into a cab, whose jarvey, by the 
side of his broken-kneed horse, whip in hand, is as eager to catch 


ROYAL FEASTINGS. 


209 


a fare. And yet this same Westminster Hall, so often dull and 
dreary, and never now particularly cheerful and joyous, was once 
the theatre of most brilliant festivities, of banquetings right royal 
in their way, both at coronations and at weddings, and oftener 
still at Christmas, Easter, and Whitsuntide. What colours have 
shone—what gold and silver and jewels have gleamed and sparkled 
—what armour and arms have glittered—what banners and 
feathers have waved—what lights have flashed—what minstrelsy 
has echoed—what shouts of laughter and bursts of song have rolled 
up the halls, and run along the roof, in the Westminster Hall of 
the Normans, Plantagenets, and Tudors ! If few spots have wit¬ 
nessed more of anxiety and sadness, certainly few have seen as 
much of hilarity and rejoicing. 

Let us catch some of the echoes. 

Here is the first, proceeding from the black-letter folio of 
good John Stowe, now before us:—“King William, having re¬ 
turned out of Normandy into England, kept his feast of Whitsun¬ 
tide very royally at Westminster in the new hall, which he had 
lately caused there to be builded.” This is all we find recorded. 
Thus the first of the festive echoes is but faint; but they will 
soon grow louder. 

Henry, the son of Henry n., received the regal crown while his 
father was alive. He passed through the ceremonies of knight¬ 
hood and coronation on the same day (a.d. 1170). A banquet 
followed in the great hall, when the father served the son as 
sewer, bringing up the boar’s head, the very crown of the feast, 
amidst a blast of trumpets. The Archbishop of York—who had 
crowned the prince, in assumption of a privilege claimed by Becket 
as Archbishop of Canterbury, with whom the king was at variance 
—noticed the pride which flushed the cheek of the royal stripling at 
the honour and service thus done him by his sire, and, turning to 
him, said, “ Be glad, my son ; there is not another prince in the 


210 


ECHOES OF WESTMINSTER, HALL. 


world that hath such a sewer at his table.” The newly crowned 
scion of royalty gave presage of his after unfilial ambition by 
asking: “Why dost thou marvel at that? My father in doing it, 
thinketh it not more than becometh him; he, being born of 
princely blood only on the mother’s side, serveth me that am 
a king born, having a king to my father and a queen to my 
mother.” Father and son appear about equally foolish in this 
business; but in the vanity of the latter there was something 
worse than folly. 

On a Sunday in the September of 1189, Bichard Coeur de Lion 
held his coronation feast in the hall, where the citizens of London 
officiated as the king’s butlers, and men of Winchester served up 
the viands. While archbishops and bishops, earls, barons, and 
knights, were seated at the royal tables, and the wine-cups went 
round, and the rude music of the minstrels mingled with the ruder 
merriment of the numerous guests, a scene occurred outside the 
walls of the grand banqueting-room in strange contrast to the 
rejoicings inside, but very characteristic of the state of the times. 
Bichard had given orders that no Jew or Jewess should be present 
at his coronation, or at the banquet afterwards, “ for fear,” says 
Stowe, “ of enchantments which were wont to be practised.” But 
some of the proscribed race, trusting to the gold and the gifts 
which English monarchs were wont to extort from the children of 
Israel, whose riches had become proverbial, ventured to approach 
the royal presence with appropriate offerings—too tempting a bribe 
to be resisted ; so, in spite of previous orders, they were permitted 
to enter the hall, and their presents were accepted. 

One unlucky wight, however, came into collision with a very 
zealous hater of the Jewish race, and this led to a general dis¬ 
turbance, whereupon the whole party, who had paid more dearly 
for their admission than any others, were ignominiously driven out 
into the street. Public fury against Jews was easily kindled, and 


ROYAL FEASTINGS. 


211 


when once it burned there was destruction without mercy. Staves, 
bats, and stones were in immediate request, and the unhappy 
victims of popular indignation were driven back to “ their houses 
and lodgings.” Violence grew into massacre ; and that night the 
streets of Westminster and London were stained with the blood of 
the children of Abraham. The riot waxed fiercer and fiercer ; the 
Jews made barricades for their defence,—when their enemies pro¬ 
ceeded to burn their houses, making a holocaust of the inmates, 
husbands, wives, and children; or, breaking open the doors, they 
flung these miserable creatures out of the windows into the midst 
of blazing bonfires heaped up in the area below. The king caused 
several of the rioters to be seized, and some of them to be hanged. 

What a comment does all this afford on the rudeness of the 
times, the prejudices against the Jews, the belief in magic, the 
feeble restraints of law and justice, and the iniquitous partiality and 
selfishness of the sovereign ; for Bichard, in sentencing three of the 
ringleaders to the gallows, expressly declared that it was for having 
burnt the houses of Christians ! And when he saw the property, 
as well as the persons, of the Jews vanishing out of his sight, he 
declared them under his own gracious and special protection. 

The festal echoes become still more distinct as time advances; 
and in the reign of the third Henry, we find numerous detailed 
records of regal banquetings at Westminster. The marriage of 
the king with Eleanor of Provence, in 1236, was an occasion on 
which the festivities of the great hall were conducted with unusual 
splendour. “ The solemnity was resplendent with the clergy and 
knights properly placed. But how shall I describe the dainties of 
the table, and the abundance of divers liquors, the quantity of 
game, the variety of fish, the multitude of jesters, and the at¬ 
tendance of the waiters? Whatever the world pours forth of 
pleasure and glory was there especially displayed.” So writes 
Matthew Paris. 


212 


ECHOES OF WESTMINSTER HALL. 


In the same reign, we read of dinners given by the king to the 
poor, both here and in the little hall, the weak and the aged being 
placed on one occasion in the former, and those more strong and in 
reasonable plight in the lesser, while in the king and the queen’s 
chamber there were great gatherings of the little folks. From 
Christmas-day to the day of the Circumcision in 1247, the great 
hall was filled with poor people, who were there provided with 
good cheer. 

Other adventures, too, there were in those days in the old West¬ 
minster Hall, neither festive nor political; for we read of a flood in 
1238, when the Thames rose so high that the water entered the 
building, and the hall was crossed in boats, and people rode through 
it on horseback to their chambers. After an inundation had oc¬ 
curred at a much later period, the subsiding tide left on the floor of 
the hall a quantity of fish. 

The coronation banquet of Richard n. (a.d. 1377), who rebuilt 
the hall, was remarkably magnificent. The reader will not care to 
have the names of all the magnates recorded as being present on 
the occasion. It will be sufficient to observe that the lord steward, 
the constable, and the earl marshal, with certain knights, rode 
about the hall on horseback, to keep the people in order: that after 
the feast the great men, knights, and lords, passed the remainder 
of the day till supper time in shows, dances, and solemn minstrelsy ; 
that in the midst of the palace there was set up a marble pillar, 
crowned with a gilt eagle, from under the feet of which, through 
four sides of the capital, different kinds of wine gushed out, freely 
to be taken by all comers, rich and poor. 

At the coronation feast of Henry iv. (1399), the champion, 
in the person of one of the Dymokes, enters at the second course, 
armed cap-a-pie, his horse barbed with crimson housings, a herald 
proclaiming his challenge with a loud voice, in different parts of 
the hall. Speaking of that second course, we may add that, thanks 


ROYAL FEASTINGS. 


213 


to a MS. in the British Museum, we can tell what were the principal 
dishes in all the three courses of that remarkable dinner. The 
first included two made dishes called “ Braun en Peverarde,” and 
“ Yiande Byal,” and also boar’s head, cygnets, capons, pheasant, 
heron, and sturgeon, with an ornamental preparation styled a 
subtelty , consisting of figures, historical or emblematical. The 
second course comprised venison in frumenty, jelly, young pigs 
stuffed, peacocks, cranes, venison pasty, tongue, bitterns, fowls 
gilded, large tarts, and rashers of ham or brawn, winding up, like 
the first, with a subtelty. The third course comprehended quinces, 
in confection, young eagles, curlews, partridges, pigeons, quails 
snipes, small birds, rabbits, white brawn sliced, eggs in jelly, fritters, 
sweetmeats and eggs, and again the favourite subtelty. 

Catherine, the queen of Henry v., was crowned during Lent, 
and the banquet in the great hall on her account was therefore all 
of fish. Carp, turbot, tench, and perch appeared on the table, and 
among them there were “ porpies rostyd,” and “ menuys fryed,” 
which, if we are to take them as meaning roast porpoises, and 
fried minnows, must have formed an odd assortment of viands both 
as to flavour and size, to say nothing of them as specimens of 
culinary art. Most elaborate subtelties figured among the fish 
dishes, and the image of St. Catherine, with her wheel, in com¬ 
pliment to the queen, was prominently introduced in each course. 
Her Majesty, we are informed, was with great pomp conveyed into 
Westminster Hall, and there set in the throne, at the table of 
marble at the upper end, with the prelates of Canterbury and Win¬ 
chester on the right hand, and the king of Scots on the left. 

The young king Henry vi. was crowned here, in 1429. “At 
which coronation,” Hall tells us, “ to rehearse the costly fare, the 
delicate meat, the pleasant wines, the number of courses, the sorts 
of dishes, the labours of officers, the multitude of people, the 
estates of lords, the beauties of ladies, the riches of apparel, the 


214 


ECHOES OF WESTMINSTER HALL. 


curious devices, the solemn banquets, it would ask a long time, and 
weary you.” No doubt it would; therefore congratulating the 
reader, that the good chronicler’s brevity has withheld from us 
what might have proved too strong a temptation to quote, we pass 
on to the coronation of Richard ill., for which more than ordinary 
care was taken to render it splendid, both for the personal gratifica¬ 
tion of the vain usurper, and for the purpose of impressing the 
people with a sense of that dignity, which, though often factitious, 
doth, in the eyes of the vulgar, like divinity, “ hedge about a king.” 

A minute account of the robes worn has been preserved, and 
the first course of the feast, it is said, was served on dishes of gold 
and silver. At the second course “ came riding into the hall, Sir 
Robert Dymoke, the king’s champion, his horse trapped with 
white silk and red, and himself in white harness, and the heralds- 
of-arms standing upon a stage, among all the company. Then 
came riding up before the king, his champion, and there he de¬ 
clared before all the people, ‘ If there be any man will say against 
king Richard in., why he should not pretend the crown and anon, 
all the people were in peace awhile. And when he had all said, 
anon all the hall cried, £ King Richard,’ all with one voice. And 
when this was done, anon, one of the lords brought unto this 
champion a cup full of red wine, covered; and so he took the cup 
and uncovered it, and drank thereof, and when he had done, anon, 
he casts out the wine, and covered the cup again, and made his 
obeisance to the king, and turned his horse about, and rode through 
the hall with the cup in his right hand; and that he had for his 
labour.” 

When Elizabeth was married to Henry vil, it is curious to 
notice that, at the banquet, the queen presided alone—a goodly 
stage out of a side window having been raised for the king and his 
mother, “ privily, and at their pleasure,” to see the noble feast and 
service: and so again, when Anne Boleyn passed through the 


ROYAL FEASTINGS. 


215 


dazzling dream of royalty, and sat enthroned in Westminster Hall, 
the wife of Henry vm., he, with divers ambassadors, stood to 
behold the scene in a little closet, made on the right hand out of 
the cloisters of St. Stephen’s. 

The reign of Henry yiii. was the very climacteric of that long 
age of feudal splendour which so often threw its blaze of illusive 
glory over the sombre and massive hall of William and Richard. 
A form of mountain-like strength, grave and dark, with cressets 
sparkling over it now and then, was the feudal system; such, too, 
was this feudal hall. The spirit began to change in the later 
Tudor times. Civilization was on the edge of a crisis, and the 
festivities of English kings, though quaint and proud as ever, came 
to wear an affected garishness. The growth of one age trans¬ 
planted into the soil of another altogether different from that out 
of which it sprang, degenerates into a sickly exotic. What once 
was natural enough becomes fantastic. The life and meaning of a 
thing gone out of it, what remains but an unkernelled shell ? 
Mediaeval pageantries in modern times are but mouldy husks, 
empty and rotten. 

Westminster Hall, in 1653, witnessed a scene of very different 
character from regal banquetings—quite a contrast to all feudal 
pageants—springing out of another state of society, another 
political spirit, another order of civilization, yet having in it state 
ceremonial and solemnity—a grand inauguration without a feast. 
Cromwell was sworn in Lord Protector on the 16th of December, in 
the Chancery Court in Westminster Hall, which was hung with 
banners taken from the royalists at Naseby and Worcester. There 
was a canopy of state at the south end over the ancient coronation 
chair, which had been brought out of the Abbey. There w r as a 
table before it, covered with pink-coloured velvet of Geneva, fringed 
with gold. There lay on the table, Bible, sword, and sceptre. 
Members of parliament were there; the speaker in a chair beside 
the table; the lord mayor of London and the aldermen, “with the 


216 


ECHOES OF WESTMINSTER HALL. 


like,” were there; and his Highness was there in the seat where 
kings had worn their crowns, his dress rich but plain—a black 
velvet suit and cloak of the same, and a broad gold band about his 
hat. " Fifty-four years old gone April last; brown hair and 
moustache are getting gray. A figure of sufficient impressiveness, 
not lovely to the man-milliner species, not pretending to be so. 
Massive stature; big massive head, of somewhat leonine aspect, 
wart above the right eyebrow, nose of considerable blunt aquiline 
proportions, strict yet copious lips, full of all tremulous sensibilities, 
and also, if need were, of all fiercenesses and rigours; deep loving 
eyes, call them grave, call them stern, looking from under those 
craggy brows, as if in lifelong sorrow, and yet not thinking it 
sorrow, thinking it only labour and endeavour: on the whole, a 
right noble face and hero face.” So that great modern man, kingly 
in his way, sat in Westminster Hall, amidst grave, subdued solem¬ 
nities, with his Bible and sceptre, and Mr. Lockier, the chaplain, 
giving an exhortation. But as a matter of fact, England could not 
bear the repetition of that sort of thing. Once in the march of 
centuries it sufficed. The coronation chair went back to West¬ 
minster Abbey, and the coronation banquet was restored in West¬ 
minster Hall; but the history of the affair becomes dull and tame. 
It is weary work to go through it. A desperate and costly attempt 
to revive the mediaeval part at the crowning of a modern king, was 
made by George iv. The feast was a fine show—a theatrical 
exhibition, with nothing real in it but the presence of the Great 
Duke, to whom the monarch acknowledged that he owed the safety 
of his crown and the peace of his realm. The coronation of 
William iv., and of our beloved queen was without a banquet; 
and an unlooked-for change must come ere regal feastings will 
again enliven the old hall. Such festivities as those we have 
recorded, in connection with our Henries and Richards, can never 
more be seen. We by no means wish they should. 


217 


III. MEN OF THE MARBLE CHAIR. 

That tlie king is the fountain of justice is a maxim which obtained, 
as to the spirit of it, long before it was formally expressed. When 
a patriarchal sort of sovereign in the oldest times sat in the gate, 
and every man who had any complaint or cause came to him, that 
he might do them justice, that venerated ruler, whose prerogatives 
had not come to be minutely scanned and rigidly bounded, was 
deemed to be in possession of a legal authority so absolute as to be 
in some sort divine. And though in less ancient times, and in our 
western world, other forms of government were blended with the 
kingly—and among our Saxon fathers, the priest, the earl, and the 
thane appeared in the royal councils, and had a voice in judicial 
and legislative decisions—for during a long season they were 
blended, and an accurate distinction between them in practice and 
theory is a comparatively modern refinement—yet the crowned 
head was thought fullest of wisdom, as the rudely sceptred hand 
surpasses others in strength. By common consent, the king was 
most knowing and most able. There were inferior courts of justice 
in our old Anglo-Saxon land, for the king could not be everywhere 
himself; but all the streams of justice were acknowledged to flow 
from him as the original source; and when these were multiplied, 
still he sat at certain times in the great hall of his palace, adminis¬ 
tering justice with his own lips; and litigants came and told their 
tale in the royal ear, and sought the termination of their quarrels 
from his behest. So sat Edward the Confessor, in his palatial hall 
at Westminster, the great father-judge of the realm, his people 
bowing to his decisions with reverence, if not always with satis¬ 
faction. 


218 


ECHOES OF WESTMINSTER HALL. 


Kingship lost nothing in England, of individual power, by 
passing from the Saxon to the Norman; on the contrary, William, 
amongst his barons, sat more potent than Edward amongst his 
thanes. He was feudal lord of the land, and transferred to his 
court at Westminster notions and usages such as prevailed in 
Normandy and throughout France. As monarch over his new 
kingdom, he was an exaggerated impersonation of the feudal power, 
which reigned in every baron’s castle, meting out justice, accord¬ 
ing to its own fashion, among the members of the household. 
England was for a while a sort of Norman fortress, and the subjects 
of the king were dealt with as his children, his servants, and his 
retainers. In 1069, the Abbot of Peterborough was tried in 
person before the king at Westminster—the first particular notice 
we have of a law court on the spot, the first judicial scene which 
appears amidst the festivities of Norman times, and a prelude to 
manifold legal transactions and proceedings, which impart to West¬ 
minster Hall nobler memories than arise out of its most gorgeous 
coronation banquets. In 1234 we find a curious case tried before 
Henry iil, in person, many of his bishops and principal subjects 
being present on the occasion. Seven Jews were brought before 
him, absurdly charged with having stolen and circumcised a boy at 
Norwich, keeping him in confinement with a view to his crucifixion 
at the following passover. Matthew Paris says: “ They were 
convicted of this crime, and in the king’s presence confessed them¬ 
selves guilty, and were detained in prison afterwards, to await his 
pleasure.” According to another authority—Fabyan—they were 
released without punishment. 

In 1256, John Stowe tells us that “king Henry sat in the 
exchequer of this Hall, Westminster, and there set down order for 
the appearance of the sheriffs and bringing in of their accounts; 
and there were five marks set on every sheriff’s head, for a fine, 
because they had not distrained every person that might spend 


219 


MEN OF THE MARBLE CHAIR. 

15£. land by the year, to receive the order of knighthood, according 
as the same sheriffs were commanded.” 

The express mention of the Court of Exchequer indicates that 
the rudimental administration of justice had given place to some¬ 
thing more definite and artificial. At an early period matters 
relating to revenue seem to have been separately considered, and to 
have come under distinct adjudication. A particular chamber was 
set apart, and at particular seasons the great lords of the king’s 
court there met the monarch ; and so arose the Court of Exchequer. 

Another court, branching out of the curia regis, appears in the 
reign of king John, before Magna Charta; this was the Common 
Pleas. King’s Bench and Chancery are recognisable in the reign 
of Edward I. Physiologists inform us that the higher organs of 
animal life are found undeveloped in the lower types of animal 
existence; and so, seininally, are found in the primitive con¬ 
stitution of the Norman king’s court, powers which have unfolded 
themselves under the culture of later civilization, into the elaborate 
formation of our modern law practice. But the worthies who sat 
judging in the earliest Westminster Hall little dreamt of the 
manifold distinctions, divisions, intricacies, and subtleties in which 
their descendants of the ermine and coif would become involved in 
the nineteenth century. 

Even among the officers of the Saxon kings we find a Chancellor, 
shall we say so called from his power of cancelling the king’s 
letters patent when granted contrary to law ? or from the cancelli , 
the lattice-work, or crossbars which separated the multitude from 
the chancel or recess in which he sat ? 

This now important functionary at first was far from being Lord 
High Chancellor: he was little more than clerk of the king’s 
closet. In Norman times, for a good while, the Lord High 
Justiciary was the chief law officer of the Crown. The Saxon 
chancellor had, however, his legal functions, and the earliest reported 


220 


ECHOES OF WESTMINSTER HALL. 


decision of a chancery lawyer is, we believe, that of the renowned 
St. Swithin, of moist memory, who, when he held the great seal, 
had an old woman come before him seeking redress in equity, for 
a rude assault committed upon her, whereby she had been shoved 
about on her way to market, so that all the eggs in her basket 
were crushed to pieces. Lord Chancellor Swithin’s decision was 
more practical, as it was more marvellous, than those of his 
successors are wont to be: for, according to the report of this great 
case, in William of Malmesbury, the saint, while he gave judgment 
against the aggressor, made over the eggs the sign of the cross, and 
thereby miraculously consolidated shell and yolks ; so that we 
doubt not the good market woman went away from that Court of 
Chancery far merrier than people since have done, for she brought 
out a far better estate than had been thrown in. 

The chancellors at first were clerical personages ; but in the reign 
of Henry hi. we are presented with the variety of a lady keeper 
of the great seal, in the person of Queen Eleanor, who actually 
sat in judgment, in the Aula Regis, except when the private 
domestic affair of the birth of a young prince kept her at home. 

Anciently, the king’s court migrated with his Majesty from place 
to place, and was held at Westminster, Winchester, or Gloucester, 
as the case might be; and the same custom was observed with 
regard to the distinct branches into which the original court became 
divided, until the manifest inconveniences of the arrangement 
produced a change; and in the reign of Edward ill., Chancery 
settled down at Westminster. A corner of the great hall had 
already been allotted to the Common Pleas ; and now at the upper 
end, and on the right hand side, in a recess left open, with only a 
bar to keep off the suitors and people, the hitherto movable 
authority was fixed. A marble table on an elevated floor, reached 
by five or six steps, with a marble chair close to it, were the visible 
signs of this dignified court. Writs and letters patent were signed 


MEN OF THE MARBLE CHAIR. 


221 


on the table, and my lords were inaugurated by being solemnly 
seated in the chair. These memorials of chancery justice existed 
in Dugdale s time, and are said to have been displaced when the 
chancery court was enclosed. 

The first layman who sat in the marble chair was Sir Robert 
Bourchier, knight, who took the place of Robert de Stratford, and 
who, with his royal master Edward hi., sought to exclude the 
ex-chancellor from his seat in parliament; whereupon one day a 
sad fracas occurred in Westminster Hall. When Stratford, Arch¬ 
bishop of Canterbury, appeared in pontifical robes, with his crosier, 
demanding admittance to the Chamber of peers, he was seized and 
carried to the bar of the Court of Exchequer. After this, taking 
up his position in Palace Yard, he declared he would not stir till 
the king admitted him to parliament. “ Thou art a traitor ; thou 
hast deceived the king, and betrayed the realm,” exclaimed some 
of the royal party. “ The curse of the Almighty, and of his blessed 
mother, and of St. Thomas, and mine also, be upon the heads of 
them who inform the king so,” rejoined the vengeful priest. 

The installations of Simon de Langham and Sir Robert Thorpe 
are specially mentioned in the reign of Edward in., the former as 
extraordinarily magnificent, the latter as graced by the presence 
and assistance of his predecessor, the renowned William of Wick¬ 
ham. Archbishop Arundel’s occupation of the marble chair was 
remarkable for the trial of William Thorpe, a priest, for heresy. 
“Being brought before Thomas, Archbishop of Canterbury and 
Chancellor of England, when that I came to him,” says the poor 
priest, “ he stood in a great chamber, and much people about him, 
and when that he saw me he went fast into a closet, bidding all 
secular men that followed him to go forth from him.” After a long 
colloquy, the chancellor said: “ Be this thing well known to thee, 
that Goa, as I wot well, hath called me again and brought me into 
this land for to destroy thee and the false sect that thou art of, as, 


222 


ECHOES OF WESTMINSTER HALL. 


by God (such was his awful blasphemy) I shall pursue you so 
narrowly, that I shall not leave a step of you in this land.” After 
this loving address, the Lollard confessor replied : “ Sir, the holy 
prophet Jeremy said to the false prophet Anany , * When the word 
that is the prophecy of a prophet is known or fulfilled, then it shall 
be known that the Lord sent the prophet, in truth.’ ” The chan¬ 
cellor was little pleased at this sharp kind of rejoinder, in which 
so many of the early English so-called heretics excelled, and with 
another oath, and a coarse threat, dismissed the accused to a “ foul 
unhonest prison,” where, it is to be feared, William Thorpe ended 
his days. 

Among the men of the marble chair, Cardinal Beaufort appears 
conspicuous in the reign of Henry V., not for any good qualities, 
but for his pride and rapacity. So great was his wealth and so 
keen his avarice, that when the king sought from him pecuniary 
help in his troubles, this keeper of both royal conscience and royal 
seal would not give a farthing, but only lend—nor that without the 
first security. The king preferred to offer his crown rather than 
not get the gold he wanted; and we have thus the strange fact of 
a sovereign of England pawning his crown to a lord chancellor. 

The reign of Henry viii. presents to us two of the most remark¬ 
able men that ever filled the marble chair—one immediately 
succeeding the other, an unparalleled succession—bothgreat, very 
great, but exhibiting each his own kind of greatness, between 
which, as to superiority, the reader will very soon decide— 
Cardinal Wolsey and Sir Thomas More. 

In connection with the former, we have a description of two very 
characteristic scenes associated with the marble seat at Westminster. 
Cavendish, his biographer, and one of his household, thus quaintly 
describes the first. 

“ Having risen by day-break and heard mass, he returned to his 
private chamber, and his public rooms being now filled with noble- 


MEN OF THE MARBLE CHAIR. 


223 


men and gentlemen attending his levee, he issued out into them, 
apparelled all in red, in the habit of a cardinal, which was either of 
fine scarlet or else of crimson satin, taffety damask, or caffa, the 
best that he could get for money; and upon his head a round 
pillion, with a noble of black velvet set to the same in the inner 
side ; he had also a tippet of fine sables about his neck ; holding in 
his hand a very fine orange, whereof the meat or substance within 
was taken out, and filled up again with part of a sponge, wherein 
was vinegar and other confections against the pestilent airs, the 
which he most commonly smelt unto passing among the press, or 
else when he was pestered with many suitors. There was also 
borne before him, first, the great seal of England, and then his 
cardinal’s hat, by a nobleman or some worthy gentleman, right 
solemnly, bareheaded. And as soon as he was entered into his 
chamber of presence, there were attending his coming to await 
upon him to Westminster Hall, as w T ell noblemen and other worthy 
gentlemen, as noblemen and gentlemen of his own family; thus 
passing forth with two great crosses of silver borne before him; 
with also two great pillars of silver, and his pursuivant-at-arms with 
a great mace of silver gilt. Then his gentlemen ushers cried and 
said, * On, my lords and masters, on before! make way for my 
lord’s grace !’ Thus passed he down from his chamber to the hall 
and when he came to the hall door, there was attendant for him 
his mule, trapped altogether in crimson velvet and gilt stirrups. 
When he was mounted, with his cross-bearers and pillar bearers 
also upon great horses trapped with fine scarlet, then marched he 
forward with his train and furniture, in manner as I have declared, 
having about him four footmen with gilt pole-axes in their hands; 
and thus he went until he came to Westminster Hall door, and 
there alighted and went after this manner up through the hall 
into the chancery; howbeit he would most commonly stay awhile 
at a bar made for him a little beneath the chancery on the right 


224 


ECHOES OF WESTMINSTER HALL. 


hand, and there commune some time with the judges, and some 
time with other persons. And that done he would repair into the 
chancery, sitting there till eleven of the clock, hearing suitors and 
determining of divers matters. And from thence he would divers 
times go into the Star Chamber, as occasion did serve, where he 
spared neither high nor low, but judged every one according to 
their merits and deserts.” 

As to his last public judicial appearance, Lord Campbell observes: 
“ On the first day of Michaelmas term, which then began in the 
middle of October, he headed the usual grand procession to West¬ 
minster Hall, riding on his mule, attended by his crosses, his 
pillars, and his pole-axes, and an immense retinue to defend the 
great seal and the cardinal’s hat. It was remarked that in the 
procession, and while sitting in the Court of Chancery, his manner 
was dignified and collected, although he, and all who beheld him, 
knew that he had touched the highest point of all his greatness, 
and from the full meridian of his glory he hastened to his setting.” 

Sir Thomas More, being neither cardinal, archbishop, nor a 
dignitary of the realm, but simply a wise man and a learned 
lawyer, though very popular among those who could appreciate his 
character and qualifications, it was thought necessary to induct 
him into the chancellor’s office, with state and dignity, for the purpose 
of impressing the vulgar mind, which had been dazzled with the 
pageantry of his predecessor. The procession was headed by the 
Duke of Norfolk, the first peer, and the Duke of Suffolk, the king’s 
brother-in-law: the nobles and courtiers in and about London, to¬ 
gether with the most distinguished members of the legal profession, 
followed in order. On reaching Palace Yard, the new chancellor 
in his robes was conducted by the two great dukes to the marble 
chaff, when Norfolk, by the king’s command, made an oration in 
honour of More, vindicating the royal choice of a man who belonged 
to neither the church nor the nobility, but was one who had both 


MEN OF THE MARBLE CHAIR. 


225 


wife and children. A speech is there reported as having been 
delivered by Sir Thomas, in the course of which, turning to the 
marble chair, he made the following remarks:— 

“ But when I look upon this seat—when I think how great and 
what kind of personages have possessed this place before me—when 
I call to mind who he was that sat in it last of all—a man of what 
singular wisdom, of what notable experience, what a prosperous and 
favourable fortune he had for a great space, and how, at last, 
dejected with a heavy downfall, he hath died inglorious—I have 
cause enough, by my predecessor’s example, to think honour but 
slippery, and this dignity not so grateful to me as it may seem to 
others ; for both it is a hard matter to follow with like paces or 
praises a man of such admirable wit, prudence, authority, and 
splendour, to whom I may seem but as the lighting of a candle 
when the sun is down ; and also the sudden and unexpected fall of 
so great a man as he was doth terribly put me in mind that this 
honour ought not to please me too much, nor the lustre of this 
glittering seat dazzle mine eyes. Wherefore, I ascend this seat as 
a place full of labour and danger, void of all solid and true honour, 
the which by how much the higher it is, by so much greater fall I 
am to fear, as well in respect of the very nature of the thing itself 
as because I am warned by this late fearful example.” 

This speech looks too much like one made for the hero; and we 
share in the suspicion that Master Boper, the reporter, had more to 
do with it than his grandfather the chancellor. However that may 
be, no one before had so worthily filled that seat of honour and re¬ 
sponsibility as he who was now installed. In days when the say¬ 
ing, as true as ever, had grown old, that “ no one could hope for a 
favourable judgment, unless his fingers were tipped with gold,” he 
administered justice with as much impartiality as diligence. 

Having heard causes in the forenoon between 8 and 11, after 
dinner he sat in an open hall, and received the petitions of all who 

I 


226 


ECHOES OF WESTMINSTER HALL. 


chose to come before him, examining their cases and giving tliem 
redress where it was in his power, according to law and good 
conscience; and the poorer and the meaner the suppliant was, the 
more affably he would speak unto him—the more heartily he would 
hearken to his cause, and with speedy trial despatch him.” 

“ It happened on a time that a beggar woman’s little dog, which 
she had lost, was presented for a jewel to Lady More, and she had 
kept it some sennight very carefully; but at last the beggar had 
notice where her dog was, and presently she came to proclaim to Sir 
Thomas, as he was sitting in his hall, that his lady withheld her dog 
from her. Presently my lady was sent for, and the dog brought with 
her, which Sir Thomas, taking in his hands, caused his wife, because 
she was the worthier person, to stand at the upper end of the hall 
and the beggar at the lower end; and saying that he sat there to 
do every one justice, he bade each of them call the dog; which, 
when they did, the dog went presently to the beggar, forsaking my 
lady. When he saw this he bade my lady be contented, for it was 
none of hers; yet she, repining at the sentence of the Lord Chan¬ 
cellor, agreed with the beggar, and gave her a piece of gold, which 
would well have bought three dogs; and so all parties were agreed, 
every one smiling to see his manner of inquiring out the truth.” 

Never since his time, we may add, has anything of the kind been 
seen more morally beautiful in Westminster Hall than the well- 
known demeanour of More towards his aged father, then puisne 
judge in the Court of King’s Bench. “Every day during term 
time, before the chancellor began business in his own court, he went 
into the Court of King’s Bench, and, kneeling before his father, 
asked and received his blessing. So, if they met together at read¬ 
ings in Lincoln’s Inn, notwithstanding his high office, he offered the 
pre-eminence in argument to his father, though, from regard to 
judicial subordination, this offer was always refused.” 

The heart of the man Wolsey is seen in the gay pageant of his 


MEN OF THE MARBLE CHAIR. 


227 


installation, as the heart of the man More is seen in the filial love 
and reverence which he cherished for his aged parent. With all 
More’s infirmities and errors, making due deduction for his sym¬ 
pathy with a persecuting age—for alas! he did by his severity to 
some Protestants brought before him, practically deny the princi¬ 
ples of tolerance which, with such fair and beautiful eloquence, he 
had illustrated in his “ Utopia ”—this upright chancellor, in the reign 
of the most tyrannical of monarchs, must impress us as an embodi¬ 
ment of high moral grandeur—as a really honest man. How all 
Wolsey’s grandeur facies away, and his moral meanness comes out 
to the eye of posterity! How to the same eye, amidst the gloom of 
his affliction, emerges the radiant form of More! Time destroys 
many illusions, rectifies many errors, and often anticipates the 
judgments of another world. 


228 


ECHOES OF WESTMINSTER HALL. 


IV. OLD PARLIAMENTS AND POLICY. 

“ A tourist,” says Sir Francis Palgrave, in liis interesting volume, 
“ The Merchant and the Friar,” “a tourist living in those happy 
days when a monkey who had seen the world was a rarer animal 
than any of the present tenants of the rival Zoological Gardens, 
and then enjoying much unmerited reputation, the author of 
4 Zeluco,’ exemplifies the ignorance of the continental noblesse by 
telling an anecdote of a Neapolitan lady of high rank, who, hearing 
an Englishman discourse, with much animation, respecting parlia¬ 
ment, exclaimed, in reply, 4 Parliament! what is it ? a corso ? a horse¬ 
race ?’ She was not able to suppose that any other matter could 
excite so much interest and be remembered with so much pleasure.” 

The story, as it is here told, certainly looks somewhat improba¬ 
ble ; but that a good deal of ignorance about parliaments should 
exist in the kingdom of Naples, is by no means surprising. What 
parliaments are, and the very great advantages which from them 
accrue to the public welfare, is happily known by most persons in 
this free country—parliaments being the palladium of our freedom; 
but what parliaments were in early days, when they used to meet 
in Westminster Hall, is perhaps by a good many persons quite 
unknown. We do not mean to draw a parallel between the 
Neapolitan lady and any of our readers: she had no idea of a 
parliament at all; but it is possible that some one reading these 
papers may imagine that parliaments at first were very much like 
what parliaments are now. 

It is true we catch but very indistinct echoes of the voices and 
doings of the early parliaments in the hall of Rufus. The sounds 
are in themselves feeble, and then we have the difficulty of 


OLD PARLIAMENTS AND POLICY. 


229 


catching them augmented by historical critics and legal com¬ 
mentators, who raise in our ears a loud buzz and bewildering din 
in their conflicts with each other, under pretence of clearly repeat¬ 
ing to us what the echoes say. 

Thus much is clear, that parliaments, in the very old time, were 
for a good while far more judicial than legislative. The writer 
just quoted describes in a lively manner a proclamation of the 
opening of parliament in the time of Edward II. A grave-looking 
personage, standing in the midst of a crowd in East Cheap, reads, 
with a loud voice from a parchment roll, the “ crye ” that on the 
octave of St. Hilary, now next ensuing, our lord the king will hold 
his high court of parliament at Westminster. All who had any 
grace to demand of the king in parliament, or any complaint 
to make to the king in parliament of matters which could 
not be redressed or determined by ordinary course of the common 
law; or who had been in any way aggrieved by any of the king’s 
ministers, the king’s justices, the king’s sheriffs, or their bailiffs, or 
any other officer ; or who had been unduly assessed, rated, charged, 
or surcharged, to aids, subsidies, or taxes, “are to deliver their 
petitions to the receivers whom for that purpose our lord the king; 
hath appointed, and who will sit openly from day to day ready to 
listen to you, ready to attend to you, in the great hall of the king’s 
palace of Westminster, at the foot of the staircase on the left hand 
side, just as ye enter the same.” Whereat there is much rejoicing 
and throwing up of caps, and vociferous shouts of “ Long life to his 
Majesty and, perhaps, among the dirty boys and greasy butchers 
—the sooty smiths and begrimed cordwainers—among the fisher¬ 
men and sailors that have just come from the river-side—among 
the men-at-arms and baronial retainers—among monks and friars, 
pretty plentifully sprinkled in all street gatherings—there are 
substantial citizens, and even humbler folk, who have some heavy 
wrong chafing their spirit, and who are panting for redress, and 


230 


ECHOES OF WESTMINSTER HALL. 


who, as they hear the welcome “ crye,” resolve that, on the octave 
of St. Hilary, they will be at the foot of the staircase, on the left 
hand side of the great hall. 

Let us go down ourselves on the appointed day. As well as the 
crowd about the door will let us, we elbow our way into the hall. 
Here are people of all sorts, come to ask for justice at the hands of 
the triers who are sitting, in the king’s name, to hear complaints 
and give decisions in these cases of appeal. Here are people come 
to complain of some wrong done them in the exaction of dues by 
the officers of the king—of their being defrauded of their property 
through some misjudgment in the lower courts—of some loss for 
which they have in vain sought elsewhere for compensation—of 
some unfair outlawry, proclaimed by the coroner of a certain 
county—of some violence done by the lord of a manor to one of 
free birth and blood, under an assumed and illegitimate claim of 
villanage. 

These parliaments have very extensive powers, and are very 
busy in putting everybody and everything to rights. But not to 
dwell any longer upon these judicial associations of the old parlia¬ 
ments in Westminster Hall, we would just remind the reader of the 
relic of these old usages in the existing authority of the House of 
Lords, as the final court of appeal in the English realm. 

The Commons began to sit in parliament in Westminster Hall 
in the reign of Henry in., and their functions at first, it should be 
observed, were scarcely deliberative. They petitioned for the 
redress of grievances, and provided for the necessities of the 
crown. Their hold of the purse gave them power as petitioners. 
There is the secret of many of the acquisitions on the side of 
popular liberty made in the history of the English constitution. 
The Commons and the Barons at the beginning sat together in the 
same great hall; but probably there always was some distinction 
made between them—the upper body of the great national council 


OLD PARLIAMENTS AND POLICY. 


231 


sitting at the top, the lower at the bottom. The distinction 
becomes clear enough between Lords and Commons in the reign of 
Edward in., when the Speaker is mentioned, the first person in 
that office of whom we have any account being Sir Thomas de 
Hungerford. It is curious to notice that there occur among the 
early summonses to meet the barons at Westminster, writs addressee! 
to certain ladies—Maria Countess of Norfolk, Eleanor Countess of 
Ormond, Philippa Countess of March, Agnes Countess of Pembroke, 
and Catherine Countess of Atholl, as well as to four abbesses— 
though it does not appear that any of these noble dames actually 
took their seats among the peers; and it is also curious to remark 
how the Commons were paid for their attendance in parliament 
—knights of the shire receiving, in the reign of Edward n., gene¬ 
rally four shillings a day, but sometimes only three and fourpence 
and in one instance only two and sixpence. The charges of their 
coming to Westminster and returning home were also allowed. 

The earliest echoes of parliamentary proceedings which ring in 
Westminster Hall on the side of legislation, have in them a 
decided tone of grumbling; but then it is that noble sort of 
grumbling to which our ancestors were addicted—grumbling about 
unquestionable grievances, grumbling against the encroachments 
of despotism on liberties solemnly conceded by charter and con¬ 
firmed by oath. Westminster Hall witnessed many a scene of 
earnest complaint and firm resistance in the time of Henry in. for 
which Englishmen ought to be thankful. He gave his parliament 
an uncommon deal of trouble by his faithlessness. When his 
money was gone, he would call together the estates of the realm. 
In 1248 they met him when he was in deep pecuniary distress. 
He asked for a subsidy “in relief of the great charges which he 
had in divers ways sustained.” But the barons, who looked for 
reformation in his doings, told his Majesty “ that they would not 
impoverish themselves to enrich strangers, their enemies,” upon 


232 ECHOES OF WESTMINSTER HALL. 

whom, in his prodigality, he had wasted much of his revenue. He 
promised amendment, and adjourned the parliament. When the 
parliament met again, he renewed his demands of money; but the 
Commons seeing no amendment in their royal master, renewed 
their refusal. 

One of the most awfully dramatic scenes ever witnessed in 
Westminster Hall was performed by Henry and his parliament in 
the midst of their conflicts, arising out of his violation of the great 
charter, so prized by the barons, so disliked by the king. There 
they were assembled in solemn order on the 3rd of May, 1253— 
Henry himself and his brother Richard of Cornwall, and the Earls 
of Norfolk, and Suffolk, and Hereford, and Oxford, and Warwick, 
and other great barons, together with the Archbishop of Canter¬ 
bury, and the Bishops of London, Ely, and Lincoln, and many 
more—these latter all dressed in pontifical robes, with lighted 
candles in their hands. The barons had come to hear, and the 
priests to pronounce, in the presence of the monarch, the sentence 
of excommunication against any who should encroach on the 
liberties of the church and state, especially those confirmed in the 
great charter of the kingdom of England and the forest charters 
Terrible was the sentence:—“In the name and authority of 
Almighty God, the Son, and the Holy Spirit; in the name of the 
Virgin Mary and the blessed apostles; in the name of St. Thomas 
of Canterbury and all the martyrs and confessors and virgins, it 
anathematized, sequestered, and drove from the threshold of holy 
church every one who knowingly and maliciously should so trans¬ 
gress.” The king listened calmly, placing his outspread hand on 
his breast, in token of assent, till the fearful sentence had ter¬ 
minated. A candle had been offered to him as well as the rest, 
but refusing to hold it, and putting it into the hand of one of the 
prelates, he observed, “ It does not become me to hold one, as I am 
not a priest.” The royal hand laid on the heart sufficed to express 


OLD PARLIAMENTS AND POLICY. 


233 


his testimony. The bishops threw their candles on the floor; as 
they lay flickering and smoking, reflected on the embroidery of 
rich canonicals, the ornaments of courtly robes, the surface of 
polished armour, the points of spears and battle-axes, the heads of 
crosses, and the tops of crosiers—as the lights became extinguished, 
and the stench of the wicks spread over the hall—each one said, 
“ So let him who incurs this sentence be extinguished, and smoke 
and stink in hell.” And then the king exclaimed, “ As God shall 
help me, I will keep these charters inviolate, as I am a man, as 
I am a Christian, as I am a knight, as I am a crowned and anointed 
king.” However earnestly the barons and bishops played their 
parts in this solemnity, the sovereign performed his insincerely or 
inconsiderately; or perhaps what may be nearer the mark, he 
uttered his vow honestly at the time, but soon changed his mind ; 
for ere long we find him going back to his old ways, after getting a 
dispensation from his oath; and, seen in the light of what followed, 
the tragic drama of Westminster Hall becomes very much like a 
farce. 

In 1255, Henry met his parliament again at the feast of St. 
Edward, almost all the great men of the kingdom being present. 
The session was prolonged day after day by the king, in the hope 
of getting what he wanted, but in vain; after which he had re¬ 
course to his old tricks, and mulcted Jews and citizens, extorting 
8000 marks from the former, under pain of hanging them if they 
did not speedily pay. “ And when,” as Holinshead says, “ he had 
fleeced them to the quick, he set them to farm under his brother 
Earl Richard, that he might peel off skin and all.” 

Again the spirit of resistance breaks out, and we have in West¬ 
minster Hall another scene. In 1258, the barons come to parlia¬ 
ment in complete armour. There they are, clothed in steel from 
top to toe. Helmets, breastplates, shields, swords, and spears, look 
rather alarming. “ Am I then a prisoner ?” asks the monarch, a 

i 2 


234 


ECHOES OF WESTMINSTER HALL. 


little daunted. “Not so,” replies Roger Bigod, Earl of Norfolk 
and Earl Marshal, a right brave man, a champion for his country’s 
liberties, and ready to beard the royal lion, when putting his paw 
on the rights of his subjects—“ Not so ; but as you, sir, by your 
partiality to foreigners, and your own prodigality, have involved 
the realm in misery, we demand that the authority of the state be 
delegated to commissioners, who shall have power to correct 
abuses and enact salutary laws.” The king stormed, but it was 
useless. A parliament soon after assembled in Oxford, when a 
council of safety was appointed, consisting of barons and prelates, 
assisted by representatives of the people ; which was the beginning 
of the authority of commons representation, as an integral part of 
the constitution of the empire. Simon de Montfort was the leader 
of that business: and we may here relate the following story in 
illustration of his power, and the awe which he inspired in the 
mind of king Henry. 

The king going out to dinner, left his palace, and took a boat at 
Westminster. The sky grew dark, and the wind grew fierce, the 
rain grew heavy, and the Thames grew rough, and thunder and 
lightning grew loud and strong. The king, who was always 
frightened at a storm, grew more and more fearful, and com¬ 
manded the rowers to put him ashore. They were just by the 
Bishop of Durham’s palace, in which Simon de Montfort then 
lived. The earl, seeing the monarch’s approach, ran out to the 
river-stairs to meet him, and after respectful salutations inquired 
why his majesty looked so terrified now that the storm had ceased. 
“Above measure,” he gravely answered, “I dread thunder and 
lightning,” but, with his accustomed oath, added, “ I am more in 
terror of you than of all the thunder and lightning in the world.” 
Perhaps he had cause to be. 

Westminster Hall, in the reign of Edward n., again rings with 
the echo of complaint. The charters are still violated. This is 


OLD PAKLIAMENTS AND POLICY. 


235 


the tone in which parliament expresses itself—rather humble, it 
must be confessed: “ The good people of the kingdom who are 
come hither, pray our lord the king, that he will, if it please him, 
have regard to his poor subjects, who are much aggrieved by 
reason that they are not governed as they should be, especially as 
to the articles of the great charter; and for this, if it please him, 
they pray remedy. Besides which, they pray their lord the king 
to hear what has long aggrieved his people, and still does so from 
day to day, on the part of those who call themselves his officers, 
and to amend it if he please.” 

Things improve in Westminster Hall under the third Edward; 
but there is sad confusion under his grandson Bichard n., which 
ends in the transfer of the crown to Henry iv. A famous scene is 
connected with this transaction. The first most memorable act in 
the edifice, which Richard had caused to be renewed and adorned, 
was one which extinguished his royal authority. 

On September the 30th, 1399, parliament assembled in the great 
hall, “ which they had hung and trimmed sumptuously, and had 
caused to be set up a royal chair on purpose to choose a new king, 
near to which the prelates were sat; on the other side sat the 
lords; and, after the commons, in order, first sat the Duke of 
Lancaster, then the Duke of York, and after him other great 
dukes and earls; but the Earls of Northumberland and Westmore¬ 
land sat not, but went up and down, ofttimes kneeling, in doing 
their offices,” says our informant, John Stow, whose pictorial 
narrative we here chiefly follow. Arundel, Archbishop of Canter¬ 
bury, preached a sermon in Latin on the blessing of Jacob by his 
father; after which a doctor of law stood up and read an instru¬ 
ment, to the effect that Richard, by his own confession, was un¬ 
worthy to reign, and would resign the crown to any one fitted to 
wear it. Then the archbishop persuaded them to proceed to the 
election of some one to occupy the vacant throne, which those 


236 ECHOES OF WESTMINSTER HALL. 

present deemed very proper, except about four of Richard’s party, 
who durst not speak. Then came the delicate question, Who 
should the new sovereign be? “ Shall it be the Duke of York ?” 
asked the archprelate; and they answered, “ No.” Then he in¬ 
quired, if they would have his eldest son, the Duke of Aumerle ? 
and they said, “No.” Would they have his youngest son? and 
they said “ No.” Others were named, and were likewise rejected. 
So, staying awhile, at last his grace asked, if they would have the 
Duke of Lancaster, and then all answered that they would have 
no other. The demand was made thrice, and then certain in¬ 
struments and charters were read in the presence of all. Then 
the archbishops, coming to the duke, fell on their knees, de¬ 
claring to him that he was chosen king, and wished him to say 
if he would consent thereto. Then the duke, being on his knees, 
rose and declared he accepted the realm, since it was ordained of 
God. According to the parliament rolls, he also asserted that he 
had a right to the crown. “ In the name of Father, Son, and Holy 
Ghost ”—so runs the record of his declaration—“ I, Henrv of 
Lancaster, challenge this realm of England, and the crown, with 
all the members and appurtenances, as that I am descended by 
right line of the blood, coming from the good lord king Henry in., 
and through the right that God, of his grace, hath sent me, with 
help of my kin, and of my friends, to recover it, the which realm 
was in point to be undone for default of governance and undoing of 
the good laws.” 

The archbishop, Stow goes on to tell, read what the new king 
w r as bound unto, and with certain ceremonies signed him with 
the cross; then he kissed the archbishop, and they took the ring 
with which the kings of England are wedded to the realm, and 
bare it to the lord Percy, who was Constable; and lie receiving 
it, showed it to the whole assembly, and then put it on the king’s 
finger. The king kissed the constable, and then the archbishops 


OLD PARLIAMENTS AND POLICY. 


237 


led the king up into the empty throne. The king made his 
prayers on his knees before it, and then delivered a speech, iirst 
to the prelates, and then to the lords, and then to the commons, 
and so sat him down on his seat. He sat a good while in silence, 
and so did all the rest, for they were in prayer for his prosperity ; 
and when they had ended, he filled up such offices of state as had 
become vacant. After this, the archbishop spake certain things 
in Latin, praying for the king’s prosperity and for the realm’s; and 
afterwards, in English, he exhorted all present to pray the like, 
after which every man sat down. With all this, there were shouts 
and acclamations, and it was announced that a parliament should 
be held in the same place on the Monday next following, and that 
on St. Edward’s day the coronation should be celebrated. 

Another irregular succession to the crown occurred in the case 
of Kichard in. Entering the Hall in great state, he placed him¬ 
self in the marble chair, and declared he would take the crown in 
that place, where the laws were administered, in the king’s name, 
and where of old the king did preside in person. Dwelling upon 
the evils of discord, and the blessings of union, this royal fisher for 
popularity proclaimed his forgetfulness of enmities and his pardon 
of all who had offended him. In proof of sincerity, he sent for one 
Fog, towards whom he had long had a deadly enmity, and publicly 
took him by the hand, ‘ 4 which thing the common people rejoiced 
at and praised, but wise men took it for a vanity.” 

Almost eveiy parliament from the 28th of Edward ill, was 
opened in the Painted Chamber, and the general place of assembly 
for the peers and great men was the White Chamber. The com¬ 
mons often sat in the Painted Chamber, but in the last two parlia¬ 
ments they were directed to withdraw to their ancient place, in the 
Chapter House at Westminster. St. Stephen’s Chapel did not 
become appropriated, as the place for the Commons house, until 
the dissolution of the abbeys in the reign of Henry vui. 


238 


V. BENCH AND BAR. 

It is remarked that through Chancery-lane, “the connecting 
link of all the Inns of Court, there must have passed all the 
great and imminent lawyers, from Coke and Hale to Erskine and 
Romilly; Sir Thomas More with his weighty aspect, Bacon 
with his eye of intuition, the coarse Thurlow, and the elegant 
Mansfield.” The silent shadows of the men do very solemnly 
come before us as we enter that busy thoroughfare. With 
thoughtful countenance—with looks deeply fixed in meditation— 
principles, cases, opinions, revolving in their minds—the great 
ones of the bench and bar cross our path in mute majesty, as, in 
our walks from Fleet-street to Holborn, we turn from the 
present to the past—from the crowds of the unknown living to 
the assemblage of the illustrious dead. We see them there as 
students—students in the conventional sense, as young men 
reading law before entering on practice—or as students in the 
general sense, as men matured and aged, with their hands full 
of business, but with their intellects still, and, especially just now, 
tasked to the very utmost in the severest exercises of acquisition 
or application, preparing some momentous plea or great decision. 
They are seen there on the way to speech and action. The 
inward treasure is being just unlocked. The fountain is rising 
from its hidden depths. The fire is kindling up—the flame will 
come. 

The remark about Chancery-lane is true of Westminster Hall, 
with this difference—that in the latter case we find these same 
great men in the midst of the arena, where they display before 
the world the results of their learning and experience. The 


BENCH AND BAR. 


239 


thinkers are actors here. Those who have studied in the Inns of 
Court speak in the Courts of Westminster. They wrestle in hard 
conflict. Earnest are their debates; pleas are urged; appeals 
are uttered; decisions are claimed and expressed; thought is 
embodied in eloquence; the jurist becomes orator. There are 
words of wisdom ; treasures are poured forth ; streams gush from 
the spring ; the fire blazes as it burns. The past at Westminster 
is not a region of calmness and silence, like that in the City. 
There are not merely forms peopling it; it rings with voices. 
Westminster has its echoes, as well as its shadows. Perhaps no 
spot on the face of the earth has so resounded with eloquence; 
certainly not any, if we connect St. Stephen’s Chapel with the law 
courts. When the mucli-talked-of New Zealander, after sitting 
on the ruins of London Bridge, soliloquizing on St. Paul’s, shall 
come down to Westminster to do his duty there, he will have 
illustrations of the beauty, music, and power of human words 
associated with the spot, which will surpass even those which now 
occur to the classical traveller, as, at Athens, he makes his way 
through fields of bearded barley to the bema of Demosthenes. 

“ The bench and the bar,” in even something like their present 
meaning, are terms inapplicable to the early days of judicial 
proceeding in this country, when the king sat in person in his hall 
to dispense justice; but we may employ them in reference to the 
early times, when the distinct judicatures were developed out of 
their primitive normal condition. The words “ bench and bar,” as 
now commonly used to denote judges and barristers, seem to be 
derived from the Inns of Court, which originated when the common 
pleas were established at Westminster. Those Inns constituted, in 
fact, a university for the study of law—such a university being 
rendered needful by the prejudices at Oxford, and Cambridge 
against the studies necessary for preparing men to practise in the 
new court. There were benchers in those inns, the superiors of the 


240 


ECHOES OF WESTMINSTER HALL. 


house, who occupied the upper end of the hall on public occasions, 
and sat on a dais. 

This part of the building was separated from the rest by a bar; 
below that sat the students who had attained a certain proficiency 
and position, and were called out of the body of the hall to sit near 
the bar, for the purpose of taking part in the mootings or discip¬ 
linary pleadings—exercises which formed a part of legal educa¬ 
tion, with a view to preparing men for their appearance in the 
courts at Westminster. Those so distinguished were termed utter 
or outer barristers; while the rest of the students, who sat in the 
centre of the hall, were styled inner barristers. At first this 
arrangement did not regulate the method of proceeding at West¬ 
minster. The utter barrister, as such, had no right to practise 
there. They do not appear to have attained that right till the 
time of Elizabeth. In old law reports, the term “ barrister ” is not 
used. Pleaders are called serjeants and apprentices at law. 

The terms “ bench and bar,” then, strictly speaking, belong to 
the Inns of Court, rather than to the Courts of Westminster, till 
the time of Elizabeth ; but as the words, in the sense we use 

them, are derived from usages in those Inns almost as ancient as 
the origin of those courts, and as men connected with those Inns, 
though not simply by virtue of that connection, practised in those 
courts, we shall take the liberty of employing the words in relation 
to early times at Westminster. Even in the Aula Regis there 
were serjeants at law who were assessors with the chief justiciar, 
and advocates for the suitors. When distinct courts were instituted, 
the judges were chosen from among these serjeants. From the 
Conquest to the time of Edward i. serjeants were the only 
advocates; from that time to the fifteenth century, law apprentices, 
as thev were called, were allowed to practise in certain courts; 

then, these law apprentices were merged in the utter barristers. 

The medley dress worn by the serjeant in Dugdale’s time was of 


BENCH AND BAR. 


241 


three colours, murrey or dark red, black furred with white, and 
scarlet. Dress, indeed, seems to have been a grand study with the 
old lawyers, if we may judge from the sumptuary regulations 
enacted respecting them:—“ To check the grievance of long beards, 
an order was issued by the Inner Temple that no fellow of that 
house should wear his beard above three weeks’ growth, on pain of 
forfeiting 20s.” The Middle Temple enacted that none of that 
society should wear great breeches in their hose, made after the 
Dutch, Spanish, or Almain fashion, or lawn upon their caps, or cut 
doublets, under a penalty of 3s. 4 d., and expulsion for the second 
offence. 4 ‘ In 3 & 4 Philip and Mary, it was ordained by all the 
four Inns of Court that none, except knights and benchers, should 
wear in their doublets or hose any light colours, save scarlet and 
crimson, nor wear any upper velvet cap, or any scarf or wings in 
their gowns, white jerkins, buskins, or velvet shoes, doubles, cuffs 
in their shirts, feathers or ribbons in their caps; and that none 
should wear their study gowns in the city, any further than Fleet 
Bridge or Holborn Bridge; nor, while in commons, wear Spanish 
cloaks, sword and buckler, or rapier, or gowns and hats, or gowns 
girded with a dagger on the back.” 

The distinguishing head-gear was the coif or black cloth cap. 
Barristers’ wigs were inventions imported from France after the 
Restoration; and it appears that at first the bench frowned on 
these now cherished ornaments of the bar. When a celebrated 
lawyer once argued a great privilege case, having to speak sixteen 
hours, he obtained leave to speak without a wig, but under the 
condition that “ this was not to be drawn into a precedent.” 

Coifed and robed, in the old time the serjeant might be seen, 
deep in official business, not only at the Inns of Court and in 
Westminster Hall, but in St. Paul’s Cathedral, where, by a chosen 
pillar, he listened to his clients, and took notes of their causes on 
his knee. There were his “chambers,” and without the inter 


242 


ECHOES OF WESTMINSTER HALL. 


position of an attorney there he held consultations; and some relic 
of the old connection between serjeants and St. Paul’s remained 
to the time of Charles n., when, on the elevation of a lawyer to 
the degree of the coif, he marched in procession to the cathedral 
and selected his pillar. 

There are echoes of strange sounds down at Westminster, as we 
dwell on scenes in the hall, and on the treatment and doings of 
men on the bench. The first chief justice who acted simply as 
judge was Robert de Brus, in 1268. In the next year we meet 
with the following incident. The Earl of Surrey had a quarrel 
with Sir Alan la Zouche about a certain manor. They came before 
the judges on the Tuesday after St. John the Baptist’s day. 
People then seem to have had less control over themselves than 
they have now; and so the earl and Sir Alan not only came to 
high words with each other, but actually they began to fight in the 
presence of the court. The domestics of the earl joined in the 
fray, and presently the hall became a scene of confusion, wonder¬ 
fully contrasting with the decorum maintained in our modern 
courts. The servants attacked Sir Alan, chased him when he fled 
from before the bench, followed him into the royal chamber, and 
there wounded him till he was half dead. The poor man after¬ 
wards expired from fever, brought on by the hot weather and the 
injuries he received. His son also was much hurt. The earl and 
his retainers made their escape, but were pursued and overtaken; 
and on the Sunday after the feast of St. Peter and St. Paul we find 
the culprit brought to court to receive justice. He was fined 7000 
marks, and was required to walk from the New Temple to West¬ 
minster, there to swear that the deed had not been done from 
premeditated malice. 

In 1289 judges themselves were found culprits. The ermine 
was stained with deep corruption. Nearly all on the bench were 
accused of illegal practices, for which a motive, though no excuse, 


BENCH AND BAR. 


243 


may be found in the smallness of their salaries—the lord chief 
justice receiving only 60 marks a year. De Weyland then pos¬ 
sessed that dignity, and on being apprehended for his malpractices, 
he managed to escape in the disguise of a monk, preferring to 
abjure the realm rather than to stand a trial. After forfeiting all 
his property to the crown, he marched barefooted and bareheaded, 
with a crucifix in his hand, down to Dover—a very curious spectacle 
to the people of Kent, all along the road. The king, to put a stop 
to the iniquity of taking bribes, made the judges swear that they 
would for the future take neither money nor any kind of present, 
unless it was a breakfast, which they might accept, provided there 
were no excess. 

In the reign of Kichard n. another disgraceful circumstance 
occurred in connection with the judicial bench. The judges—with 
the exception of Sir William Skepwith, and Chief Justice Tresilian 
who was not to be found—were arrested while sitting on the very 
throne of judgment, for having prostituted their high office in the 
service of an unprincipled monarch and his worthless court. Sir 
Nicholas Brambre, one of the chief persons accused, was formally 
impeached and tried in Westminster Hall; and what is most 
curious and remarkable, Tresilian, who had successfully concealed 
himself, now came in disguise to witness the trial of his colleague. 
He had got upon the top of an apothecary’s house, close by West¬ 
minster palace. Descending the gutter, to see who passed in, he 
was detected by some of the peers. This is one account. Another 
states that he lodged at an alehouse, “right over against the palace 
gate,” and there looked out of a window to watch the notables on 
their way to the trial. At any rate he was seen and recognised. 
A squire of the Duke of Gloucester, Froissart tells us, observing 
the judge under his disguise, cunningly contrived to catch him. 
After obtaining an interview, through the landlady, to make sure 
of his identity without giving rise to suspicion, he informed his 


244 


ECHOES OF WESTMINSTER HALL. 


master the duke. “ Then the squire went forth and took four 
serjeants with him, and said, ‘ Sire, follow me afar off, and as soon 
as I make to you a sign, and that I lay my hand on a man that I 
go for, take him, and let him not escape.’ Therewith the squire 
entered into the house where Tresilian was, and went up into the 
chamber; and as soon as he saw him, he said, 4 Tresilian, you are 
come into this country on no goodness ; my lord the Duke of 
Newcastle commandeth that you come and speak with him.’ The 
knight would have excused himself, and said, ‘ I am not Tresilian ; 
I am a farmer of St. John of Hollands.’ ‘ Nay, nay,’ quoth the 
squire, 4 your body is Tresilian, but your habit is not;’ and therewith 
he made tokens to the serjeants that they should take him. Then 
they went up into the chamber and took him, and so brought him 
to the palace. 

The miserable creature is described by a chronicler as having his 
hair and beard overgrown, and wearing old clouted shoes and patched 
hose, more like a beggar than a judge. In the end, Brambre was 
beheaded and Tresilian hanged. What occurred when the latter 
was executed is very horrible. He would not go up the ladder 
till he was well beaten with bats and staves, and then he said 
he would not die with his clothes on. So he was stripped, and 
hanged naked. The next morning his wife, having a licence of 
the king, took down his body, and carried it to the Greyfriars, 
where it was buried. 

The judges’ robes were not always pure in times succeeding 
those of Tresilian. We might tell other tales of judicial dis¬ 
honesty ; but the time has long since passed away when any 
reflection could be fairly cast on any of the wearers of the SS. 
collar, or their brethren of puisne rank. 

A very different incident from those just mentioned occurs in 
connection with the judicial history of Westminster Hall, during 
the early history of Henry y. When, as Prince of Wales, he was 


BENCH AND BAR. 


245 


leading a dissipated life, one of liis servants was arraigned at the 
King’s Bench for some act of felony. The master took the ser¬ 
vant’s part, and appeared beside him before the throne of judg¬ 
ment, demanding that he should be set at liberty. Chief Justice 
Gascoigne, nothing terrified by the presence of the king’s son, pro¬ 
ceeded to mete out justice in the king’s name. Henry, chafed by 
the judge’s resoluteness, threatened to do him violence, and for 
that purpose was ascending the bench, when Gascoigne, in a dig¬ 
nified manner, rebuked his presumption, and ordered him to be 
imprisoned in the King’s Bench for contempt of the king’s justices. 
The prince, overcome by this kind of courage and majesty, “ lay¬ 
ing his weapon apart, doing reverence, departed, and went to the 
King’s Bench as he was commanded.” “ Oh, merciful God!” ex¬ 
claimed his father, on hearing of it, “ how much am I above all 
other men bound to your infinite goodness, specially for that he 
hath given me a judge who feareth not to minister justice, and also 
a son who can suffer patiently and obey justice.” 

On reaching the times when the words “ bench and bar,” in 
their present meaning, may be applied to the Westminster Hall 
courts, we catch distinct and loud echoes—the echoes of names 
familiar to the schoolboy, pronounced in every intelligent house¬ 
hold in England. Sir Edward Coke was the greatest of English 
lawyers. We find him at the bar in the reign of Elizabeth. He 
was made Attorney-General in 1594, and knighted by James i. This 
heart seems to have been hard as his head, and “ brutal ” is not too 
strong a term to be applied to his conduct on the trial of the Earl 
of Essex. His behaviour towards Baleigh, when conducting his 
prosecution, was of the same description. The most unmeasured 
abuse was poured on the prisoner. He was “ the notoriest traitor 
that ever held up his hand at the bar,” and “ a monster with an 
English face, but a Spanish heart.” This dignified Attorney- 
General declared he would lay Raleigh “ on his back for the con- 


24 G 


ECHOES OF WESTMINSTER HALL. 


fidentest traitor that ever came to a baradding, “ I want words 
sufficient to express thy viperous treason.” 

Such cruel treatment of one arraigned at the bar was of a piece 
with Coke’s arrogant behaviour towards his brethren of the long 
robe. Bacon was his contemporary and rival, and fierce were the 
contests between these memorable barristers. 

“ Mr. Bacon,” said the Attorney-General, “ if you have any 
tooth against me, pluck it out, for it will do you more hurt than all 
the teeth in your head will do you good.” 

“Mr. Attorney, I respect you,” said Bacon, “but I fear you 
not; and the less you speak of your own greatness, the more I 
will think of it.” 

He replied : “ I think scorn to stand upon terms of greatness 
towards you, who are less than the little, less than least.” 

“ He gave me,” says Bacon, who relates the dialogue, “ a num¬ 
ber of disgraceful words' besides, which I answered with silence, 
showing that I was not moved by them.” 

This style of abuse prevailed at the bar at a later period, and 
even on the bench was continued by the infamous Jeffreys—a far 
different person, however, from Coke, as in learning and ability, so 
in moral character; for Coke, with all his harshness and pride, 
was a man of worth and honesty, an upright judge, and a stern 
patriot. 

The transfer from the bar to the bench was a very grand cere¬ 
mony in those days. It was akin to the scenes witnessed at the 
installation of men in the marble chair. Coke had no liking 
for show, so he procured a dispensation of the honour of riding 
from Serjeant’s Inn to Westminster in his “parti-coloured robes.” 
When Chief Justice Montague received the collar of SS, the pro¬ 
cession was very grand. First went on foot the young gentlemen 
of the Inner Temple ; after them the barristers according to their 
seniority ; next the officers of the King’s Bench; then the said 


BENCH AND BAR. 


247 


Chief Justice himself on horseback in his robes, the Earl of Hunt¬ 
ingdon on his right band and the Lord Willoughby of Eresby on 
his left, with above fifty knights and gentlemen of quality follow¬ 
ing. On entering the court of King’s Bench, he first presented 
himself at the bar, with a serjeant on each hand. The Lord Chan¬ 
cellor, on the bench, produced the writ by which he was consti¬ 
tuted Chief Justice, and delivered a speech on the duties of the 
office, to which Montague replied. The writ being read, he took 
the oaths, mounted the bench, and was placed in the seat of Chief 
Justice. 

Among all the names which occur in connection with bench and 
bar, no one is equal in combined greatness and excellence to that 
of Matthew Hale, “What but Christianity,” said the late Mr. Knox, 
“could have given to Judge Hale that uniform ascendancy over 
everything selfish and secular, by means of which he so un- 
deviatingly kept the path of pure heroic virtue, as to be alike 
looked up to and revered by parties and interests the most opposite 
to each other ? Is there in human history any fact more extra¬ 
ordinary than that the advocate of Strafford and Land, and of king 
Charles (had liberty been given for pleading), should be raised to 
the bench by Cromwell ? And, again, that a judge of Cromwell’s 
should be not only reinstated by Charles 11., but compelled by him, 
against his own will, to accept of the very highest judicial trust ? 
Such is the triumph of genuine Christianity, a triumph which is in 
some degree renewed wherever the name of Hale is even pro¬ 
fessionally repeated; since the appeal is evidently made not more 
to the authority of the judge than to the integrity of the man.” 

Once a duke called on Chief Baron Hale, pretending to inform 
him respecting a case shortly to be tried in his court. “Your 
Grace,” said the judge, “ does not deal fairly to come to my 
chamber about such an affair, for I never receive any information 
of causes but in open court, where both parties are to be heard 


248 


ECHOES OF WESTMINSTER HALL. 


alike.” The duke reported this to the king, who replied: “ Your 
Grace may well content yourself that it is no worse; and I verily 
believe that he would have used myself no better, if I had gone to 
solicit him in any of my own causes.” 

Once a banker, who was Lord Mayor of London and a courtier 
to boot, delayed making a return to a mandamus, whereupon the 
prosecutor moved for an attachment. Howel, the Recorder, appeared 
on the behalf of the city chief magistrate, and urged the incon¬ 
venience of such a personage being imprisoned. But all mayors 
and all men were alike to Hale on the bench. Putting his thumb 
to his girdle, as he was wont, he said: “ Tell me of the Mayor of 
London; tell me of the Mayor of Queenborough.” 

He neither clung to a judgeship from selfishness and pride, nor 
resigned it from idleness and the prospect of pension. When 
enfeebled by disease, he might be seen slowly walking into 
Westminster Hall, supported by his servants, or retiring oppressed 
with fatigue from the bench he so much adorned. He at length 
applied for a “ writ of ease,” which the king unwillingly granted, 
offering to let him hold his place and do what business he could in 
his chamber; but he answered, that he could not any longer, with 
a good conscience, continue in it, since he was no longer able to 
discharge the duty belonging to it. There was no allowance for 
retiring judges then, but the king insisted upon the continuance of 
Hale’s salary as long as he lived. He died very shortly after his 
resignation of office. Wonderful was the sanctity attached to his 
name; people regarded him as a saint, and “ they thought there 
was virtue in touching his coffin.” “ In popish times,” says Lord 
Campbell, “ miracles would have been worked at his tomb, and he 
would have been canonized as St. Matthew of Alderly,” the village 
where he died and was buried. 

Westminster Hall, in term time, was a busy place during the last 
century—busy in more senses than one. The law courts occupied 


BENCH AND BAR. 


249 


a large space at the upper end of the great hall; but there was 
also a range of counters, stalls, and cases for the sale of books, 
prints, and mathematical instruments. This would remind us of a 
modern railway station ; but the traffic in Westminster Hall went 

y * 

further still, and we are informed that sempstresses and others 
there exposed their wares, giving to the great judicial vestibule the 
appearance of a market or fair. Then, amidst all this bustle there 
was a side bar, where certain formal motions might be made, of 
which a vestige remains in the phrase “side bar motions.” The 
black robe and the wig intermixed with the booksellers, sempstresses, 
and haberdashers, strike us as an odd variety; and then, as we go 
on to think of those times, the shadows of Lord Hardwicke, and 
Chief Justice Sir Dudley Ryder pass by, with others less known to 
fame, and whose voices have left a fainter echo behind them. 

Proceeding to the latter half of the last century, as we enter 
the old court of King’s Bench, we see occupying the bench, 
the most remarkable by far of the modern wearers of the 
scarlet robe and ermine, the coif and SS collar. Lord Mansfield 
was perhaps the most maligned of any judge that ever lived. 
Junius fixed his fangs on him with merciless severity; and we 
remember, in our younger days, after reading the eloquent diatribes 
of that most factious writer, picturing Lord Mansfield to ourselves 
as a very monster of injustice. But true history tells quite another 
tale; and Lord Brougham justly pronounces, that it may be 
doubted if, taking both the externals and the more essential 
qualities into the account that go to form a great judge, any one 
has ever administered the laws in this country whom we can fairly 
name as his equal. To a calm, clear, and winning manner, more 
suited to the repose of the bench than the excitement of the bar, he 
added the strictest justice, as well as very extensive juridical 
learning. Lord Campbell follows on the same side, acquiescing 
fully in the eulogium pronounced on him in his life-time as “ the 


250 


ECHOES OF WESTMINSTER HALL. 


great Lord Mansfield.” The estimate of contemporaries in general 
must not be judged of by the abuse of Junius, for the greatest 
homage was done to Mansfield as a judge, from the first experience 
which the public had of his eminent merits. Crowds flocked to 
hear him pronounce judgment; and in his time began the practice 
of reporting in newspapers charges addressed to juries, from the 
very beautiful, correct, and impressive manner in which he dis¬ 
charged that function of his office. So great was the public 
confidence in his integrity, that suitors crowded his court with 
business, so as to leave the rest almost forsaken. 

Approaching the end of the century, we meet with one at the 
the bar as pre-eminent there as Mansfield had been on the bench. 
This was Mr. Erskine, whose noble figure, expressive countenance, 
sparkling eye, and graceful form, so kindles the eloquence of Lord 
Brougham in describing the statesmen of the time of George in. 
“ Juries have declared that they felt it impossible to remove their 
looks from him, when he had rivetted and as it were fascinated 
them by his first glance; and it used to be a common remark of 
men who observed his motions, that they resembled those of a 
blood-horse, as light as limber, as much betokening strength as 
speed, as free from all gross superfluity or encumbrance. Then 
hear his voice of surpassing sweetness, clear, flexible, strong, 
exquisitely fitted to strains of serious earnestness; deficient in 
compass indeed, and much less fitted to express indignation, or 
even scorn, than pathos, but wholly free from either harshness 
or monotony.” And this was but the outer frame of high intellec¬ 
tual qualities, penetration, memory, reason, and fancy ; this was but 
the vehicle which conveyed consummate knowledge, argument, 
pathos, and persuasion, and all employed in the service of the 
cause of liberty against injustice, tyranny, and oppression. No 
echo rings in old Westminster Hall more rich and noble than that 
of Erskine’s eloquence. 


251 


VI. STATE TRIALS. 

It is the 7th of June, 1380, and all London is astir. Not only are 
citizens, high and low, hastening down to Westminster, but lords 
and country folk of all degrees are coming in from every quarter. 
Kentish men, and men of Kent, are jostling each other on London 
Bridge, where other southern counties are contributing to the 
troops of sight-seers. They are coming from Essex and Hertford¬ 
shire down to the Strand, where the crowd thickens: and then, 
what tributary streams roll in at Charing Cross, out of the Oxford 
and Windsor roads; and there they are in bright array and holiday 
costume—knights and squires, yeomen and peasants, all glittering 
in the summer sun, with the fresh green trees, oak, elm, and ash, 
and picturesque hostels, here and there, forming a background to 
the animated pageant. There are more people here, they say to 
one another, than were seen at the king’s coronation. 

Before the palace at Westminster there is to be a grand judicial 
combat between a knight and a squire, the latter charged by the 
former with treason. The knight is Sir John Annesley, and the 
squire is Thomas Katrington ; and the treason charged is, that the 
said squire has delivered up the castle of St. Sauveur le Vicomte, 
in Normandy, of which he was governor, into the hands of the 
French. The castle would have come to Annesley, if it had not 
been given up by Katrington: so Annesley has accused Katrington 
before the lord the king, and thrown down his gauntlet in the 
court, offering, by duel, to justify his accusation ; and now r the tv T o 
are going to fight it out in the presence of his Majesty king 
Richard II., and the lords of the realm. All the preliminaries 


252 


ECHOES OF WESTMINSTER HALL. 


have been settled according to feudal and chivalrous usage; and to 
witness the issue are the people come. 

The lists are set up ; pavilions are built for the accommodation 
of the royal party, and the ladies of the court, on the pavement in 
front of the palace ; and all looks as grand as painting, and gilding, 
and tapestry, and flags, and dresses of rich colour, elaborate device, 
and whimsical ornament can make it. The lists are railed in by 
substantial barriers, to keep off the crowd, who are wedging and 
pressing toward the arena on all sides, while from walls and battle¬ 
ments, from windows and roofs, curious eyes are looking for the 
arrival of the combatants. And here they come! Sir Annesley, 
armed and mounted on a fair courser, trapped in seemly fashion, 
advances as appellant, waiting for his antagonist. 

Hush ! Three times the herald, with his rich tabard of crimson 
and gold, and coat of arms, cries out, “ Thomas Katrington, 
defendant, come and appear to save the action for which Sir John 
Annesley, knight and appellant, hath publicly and by writing- 
appealed thee.” At the end of the third call appears the de¬ 
fendant, riding on a courser covered with trappings, embroidered 
with his arms. He alights from his horse before entering the 
lists, lest the lord high constable should claim the horse; for, 
according to the law of arms, if the squire brings his horse within 
the barrier, it is forfeit. But his precaution in this instance fails; 
for the good steed, pressing after his master, thrusts his head over 
the posts, and the constable thereupon demands at least so much 
of the animal as has transgressed within the bounds ; wherefore, as 
the body will be of little use without the head, the whole is 
adjudged to his lordship. 

An indenture, according to custom, has been drawn up and 
sealed by the parties, and is now read in the public hearing. 
Katrington, not quite satisfied with himself and his cause, makes 
exceptions to the terms, though he has already subscribed them ; 


STATE TRIALS. 


253 


in consequence of which the Duke of Lancaster, who has befriended 
him, is very angry, and declares, if he will not accept what he has 
already agreed to, he shall at once be held guilty of treason, and 
accordingly executed. The people shout at that, and the squire is 
forced to say that he dares fight his enemy on the point in question, 
and all others whatever. Now, so far as strength is concerned, he 
seems to have the advantage, for he is a great, tall, muscular man, 
and the knight Annesley is little of stature. Moreover, he has 
some brave men on his side—my Lord Latimer, my Lord Basset, 
and others. 

Both combatants make oath of the goodness of their cause, and 
disclaim the use of magical arts for protection. It is to be a fair 
fight; and, offering up prayers, they begin. First, their spears 
are launched, and after some rough work with these weapons, their 
swords are drawn and crossed, and there is abundance of clashing, 
not without wounds ; and then come the daggers with deadly 
thrusts. They struggle dreadfully together, and at last the knight 
disarms the squire, and throws him down, when, blinded with 
perspiration, that has wetted his vizor, he tumbles over his adver¬ 
sary, and there they lie, sprawling and worrying one another on 
the ground like a couple of exasperated dogs. The king orders the 
combatants to be parted, but the squire is unable to stand, and has 
to be placed in a chair. Little Annesley, who seems still fresh, 
begs the king to let them fight again. He will lie down just as he 
was, with Katrington over him. But Katrington is too weak to do 
anything more : he faints away. His armour is taken off. 
Restored to consciousness, he gazes wildly round, and there, stand¬ 
ing before him, is the knight, still full-armed, calling him traitor 
and perjured, and daring him to renew the contest. Katrington 
is exhausted, and can say nothing. The battle is declared to be at 
an end. Annesley has won it, and the people disperse, talking the 
matter over, and mostly taking part with the victor; and the next 


254 


ECHOES OF WESTMINSTER HALL. 


day the defeated squire dies mad,—his dead body is hanged at 
Tyburn. 

There are more trials of this kind connected with the old 
hall; but our main business is with other associations within, 
and there some notable trials demand our attention—trials that 
have made the world ring, that have filled posterity with wonder, 
and that have themselves been tried over and over again as to 
their legality and issues—certain of which still remain moot points 
in history, that have affected most powerfully all after times, and 
that are producing effects even now. Into the legal and political 
questions involved we do not here enter. The bare facts alone 
belong to these papers. 

We have seen Sir Thomas More in “ the marble chair.” In 
1534, lie was tried for denying the king’s ecclesiastical supremacy. 
The subjoined description of his appearance on the occasion is 
admirable. “ On the morning of the trial,” says Lord Campbell, 
in his “ Lives of the Chancellors,” “ More was led on foot in a 
coarse woollen gown, through the most frequented streets, from 
the Tower to Westminster Hall. The colour of his hair, which 
had become gray since he last appeared in public ; his face, which 
though still cheerful was pale and emaciated; his bent posture and 
his feeble steps, which he was obliged to support with his staff, 
showed the rigour of his confinement, and excited the sympathy 
of the people, instead of impressing them, as was intended, with 
dread of the royal authority. When, sordidly dressed, he held up 
his hand as a criminal in that place where, arrayed in his magis¬ 
terial robes and surrounded by crowds who watched his smile, lie 
had been accustomed on his knees to ask his father’s blessing 
before mounting his own tribunal to determine, as sole judge, on 
the most important rights of the highest subjects in the realm, a 
general feeling of horror and commiseration ran through the 
spectators; and after the lapse of three centuries, during which 


I 


STATE TRIALS. 


255 


statesmen, prelates, and kings have been unjustly brought to trial 
under the same roof, considering the splendour of his talents, the 
greatness of his acquirements, and the innocence of his life, we 
must still regard his murder as the blackest crime that ever has 
been perpetrated in England under the forms of law.” 

More’s defence, as he sat in a chair, being too infirm to stand, 
was very able and touching, and made such an impression that he 
was near being acquitted ; when Rich, the solicitor-general, leaving 
the bar, presented himself as a witness, to bear testimony against 
the chancellor. This extraordinary proceeding was enough to 
startle even prejudiced jurors, and the reply of More to the evi¬ 
dence so tendered produced a deep impression, in consequence of 
which the cause of the prosecution was again imperilled; but the 
chief commissioner Audley came to the rescue of the court, and by 
his summing up procured a verdict of guilty against the prisoner. 

No state trial which had ever occurred before, produced such 
excitement as attended that of Lord Strafford in the reign of 
Charles i. We have described the crowds which flocked to the 
judicial combat outside the hall, in the days of Richard n.; but 
that was the index of a local and confined interest, compared with 
the wide-spread feeling of the seventeenth century, when the 
liberties and religious rights of the country had been assailed by 
the arbitrary proceedings of the Star Chamber, which have made 
that place a name of notoriety and infamy. At the same time, 
too, the three kingdoms were agitated by the great question of the 
relative powers of parliaments and of kings. In attacking Strafford, 
a principle was involved as well as a person ; and great and 
important as was the person, the principle was infinitely greater 
and more important still. All Europe and the world might well 
look on with throbbing interest when this remarkable man was 
tried. A throne was erected in Westminster Hall for the king; 
cabinets hung with arras were placed on each side; before the 


256 


ECHOES OF WESTMINSTER HALL. 


throne were seats for the peers, and woolsacks for the judges, and 
stages for the House of Commons. The Scotch and Irish com- 
missioners were to be present, and to occupy the two upper rows 
of benches. An inclosed dock and bench, fenced in, were ap¬ 
pointed for the prisoner. 

On Monday morning, March the 22nd, at seven o’clock, Strafford 
was brought from the Tower, with a procession of barges, contain¬ 
ing one hundred soldiers. Landing at Westminster, he was con¬ 
ducted to the hall by two hundred of the trained band, all the 
avenues to the place being guarded by constables and watchmen 
from before daylight. Charles i., the queen, and the prince, came 
about nine o’clock, and sat in the inclosed cabinets, where they 
were scarcely seen and little noticed. The king had expressly 
forbidden that the axe should be carried before Strafford, as was 
common on such occasions; so he appeared in the dock without 
that appendage to the ceremonial of a trial for treason. The 
whole of the first day wns employed in reading the impeachment, 
the king and prince staying all the time. Day after day the trial 
went on, the interest in it increasing, and public opinion becoming 
divided. Pym was the chief conductor of the prosecution, and 
employed all his abilities against the accused. The royal family 
attended ; and the king, we are told, impatient at having his view 
and hearing interrupted by the trellice-work put up before his 
closet for secrecy, tore it away with his own hands, and thus be¬ 
came visible to the assembly. The courtiers were on the side of 
Strafford, and so were the ladies generally, being touched by his 
gallant bearing, his handsomeness, grace, and eloquence. Tnere 
they were, writing down notes day after day, and earnestly de¬ 
bating points of law and fact as they arose on the trial. We can¬ 
not say much for the gravity and decorum of some of the gentle¬ 
men who were present. Baillie tells us that after ten o’clock there 
w r as much public eating, not only of confections, but of flesh and 


STATE TRIALS. 


257 


bread, bottles of beer and wine going thick from mouth to mouth 
without cups, and all this before the king’s eyes. 

After weeks spent in adducing evidence and arguments in sup¬ 
port of the charge of high treason, Strafford was allowed to make 
his defence, which was certainly most able and eloquent. One 
part of it is well known, but must be related here among the 
memorable echoes of the old hall. The children of the prisoner 
were at hand during the trial, and, pointing to them with tears, 
the prisoner exclaimed: “My lords, I have troubled you longer 
than I should have done, were it not for the interest of these dear 
pledges a saint in heaven hath left me. What I forfeit myself is 
nothing ; but that my indiscretion should descend to my posterity, 
woundeth me to the very soul. You will pardon my infirmity: 
something I should have added, but am not able; therefore let it 
pass. And now, my lords, for myself I have been, by the blessing 
of Almighty God, taught that the afflictions of this present life are 
not to be compared to the eternal weight of glory which shall be 
revealed hereafter. And so, my lords, even so I freely submit 
myself to your judgment, and whether that judgment be of life 
or death—‘ Te Deum laudamus.’ ” 

The bill of attainder passed the Commons on the 21st of April, 
and on the 7th of May it passed the Lords. Strafford appealed to 
the king; but the royal assent was given to the bill on the 10th 
of May. Charles made a feeble appeal by letter on his behalf to 
the House of Lords, asking that Strafford’s life might be spared, 
“ if it might be done without the discontent of his peopleadding 
in a postscript, “ If he must die, it were charity to reprieve him till 
Saturday.” Neither request was complied with; and the king 
said, “ What I intended by my letter was with an if it might be 
done with contentment to my people. If that cannot be,” he 
added, “ I say again, Fiat justitia. My other intention proceeding 
out of charity for a few days’ respite, was upon certain information 


258 


ECHOES OF WESTMINSTER HALL. 


that his estate was so distracted, that it necessarily required some 
days for settlement.” On the 12th Strafford perished on the 
scaffold. 

That Westminster Hall tragedy was not long after followed by 
another: Charles himself was arraigned at the bar. Into anything 
beyond the incidents of the trial we do not purpose entering. A 
high court of justice was appointed for the occasion, consisting of 
one hundred and twenty-five commissioners, of whom not more 
than eighty assembled at one time. Serjeant Bradshaw was voted 
president, under the title of “ Lord President.” The hall was 
specially fitted up for the occasion. At the further end sat the 
commissioners in rows, with high crowned hats and cloaks. On 
each side were galleries for spectators. In the front of the com¬ 
missioners, on an elevated platform, sat Bradshaw, with John Lisle 
and William Say as assistants. “ He was afraid,” it is said, “ of 
some tumult, upon such new and unprecedented insolence as that 
of sitting judge upon his king; and therefore, besides other de¬ 
fence, he had a thick, big-crowned beaver hat, lined with plated 
steel, to ward off blows.” The hat, with a Latin inscription on it, 
is now to be seen in the Museum at Oxford. 

Immediately before the Lord President was a long table, at 
which sat the clerks of the court, the mace and sword lying on the 
table. A chair was provided for the king within the bar, and at 
his right hand stood three councillors, to conduct the prosecution 
in the name of the Commonwealth. Royal banners, taken at 
Naseby, were hanging as parliamentary trophies over the head of 
the royal captive. The great door was thrown open for the ad¬ 
mission of the people, and the hall was everywhere well guarded 
by soldiers. 

On the 8th of January, the commissioners had marched to their 
places, amidst beating of drums and sound of trumpets, to make 
proclamation of the opening of proceedings. On the 19th the 


STATE TRIALS. 


259 


king had been brought from Windsor, and on the 20th he v $ 
conveyed, in a sedan chair, to the bar, where he took his seat on a 
chair covered with velvet. He looked sternly on the people and 
the court, without moving his hat. They returned like looks, and 
continued to sit covered. Bradshaw stated the cause of the trial. 
Coke, as leading counsel, stood up to speak, when Charles cried, 
“ Hold, hold !” at the same time touching him on the shoulder 
with his cane, the gold head of which dropped off as he was doing 
it—an ominous incident, to be coupled with the blowing down of 
the royal standard when first raised at Nottingham! The clerk 
began to read the indictment, when the king again cried, “ Hold F 
but at the order of the president the clerk went on, “the king 
looking sometimes on the high court, sometimes up to the gal¬ 
leries ; and having arisen again and turned about to behold the 
guards and spectators, sat down again, looking very sternly, and 
with a countenance not at all moved till the words naming 
‘ Charles Stuart to be a tyrant and traitor,’ were read, at which he 
laughed as he sat, in the face of the Court.” 

The whole being finished, the king demanded the authority ot 
the Court, the illegal constitution of which was the point he in¬ 
sisted upon throughout. He refused to plead before such a 
tribunal. Beyond that preliminary they could not get him to 
advance. After adjournments and resittings, and the hearing of 
witnesses in the Painted Chamber—the king all the while de¬ 
clining to acknowledge the jurisdiction of the parties who had 
summoned him to the bar—on the seventh day the high court of 
justice sat for the last time. President Bradshaw had then changed 
his black robe for a red one, and the other commissioners appeared 
in their best habits. The king—amidst cries from the soldiers and 
people, of “Justice, justice! execution, execution!”—sat down in 
his chair, still with his hat on. 

The appearance of things betokened the approaching catastrophe, 


260 


ECHOES OF WESTMINSTER HALL. 


iind Charles felt it. He demanded to be heard. Bradshaw 
insisted that the Court should be heard first, remarking how he 
had refused to make answer to the charges against him, brought 
in the name of the people of England. “ No, not half the people,’ 
shrieked a female voice, supposed to be that of Lady Fairfax, wife 
of the Lord General. Charles requested to be heard in the 
Painted Chamber, before the Lords and Commons; to which 
Bradshaw replied by urging that all this was a continued contempt 
of court. 

John Downes, citizen of London, one of the commissioners, 
now got up and exclaimed, “ Have we hearts of stone ? Are we 
men ? My Lord, I am not satisfied to give my consent to this 
sentence. I have reasons to offer against it. I desire the Court 
to adjourn to hear me.” The Court retired, and then returned, 
determined to proceed with their purpose. Many words followed 
between the president and the prisoner, all involving the primary 
question as to the legality of the trial. The king was startled 
at being called “ tyrant, traitor, murderer,” and uttered that 
memorable cry of “ Hah!” which still seems to echo round the 
old hall. The king wanted to be heard in arrest of judgment; 
but the president replied it was too late, as he never admitted the 
jurisdiction of the Court. The clerk was told to read the sentence, 
when Charles again claimed to be heard, and was refused. “ Sir, 
you are not be heard after sentence.” “No, sir?” “No, sir, by 
vour favour.” “ Guards, withdraw your prisoner.” “ I may speak 
after the sentence, by your favour, sir; I may speak after the 
sentence even. By your favour.”—“Hold!”—“The sentence, 
sir ”—“ I say, sir, I do ”—“ Hold.” These broken words, with 
stammers—for the king had a hesitancy in his speech—wound up 
the terrible trial; and then he retired, saying to himself, “ I am 
not suffered to speak ; expect what justice other people will have.” 

As to the mode of conducting the trial, and the behaviour of the 


STATE TRIALS. 


261 


president, the opinion of a modern judge, of great experience and 
discretion, carries weight, and with that we conclude our paper:— 
“ Assuming a court to be constituted, its authority must be 
maintained, and the steps must be taken which are necessary for 
bringing to a conclusion a trial commenced before it. The king’s 
demeanour was most noble; and he displayed such real dignity, 
such presence of mind, such acuteness, such readiness, such 
liberality of sentiment, and such touches of eloquence, that he makes 
us forget all his errors, his systematic love of despotic power, and his 
incorrigibly bad faith. He did so when the commissioners stood up, 
in token of assent to the awful sentence of beheading. Instead of 
hurrying him to the scaffold, we eagerly desire to see him once more 
on the throne, in the hope that misfortune might at last induce him 
sincerely to submit to the restraints of constitutional monarchy.” 


262 


VII.—THE SEVEN BISHOPS AND SACHEVERELL. 

There are perhaps no hymns better known in the household, the 
closet, and the church than “ Morning, Evening, and Midnight,” 
by Bishop Kenn. “Had he endowed three hospitals, he might 
have been less a benefactor to posterity.” When dwelling in quiet 
thought upon the sentiment of the hymns, and listening to the 
plain solemn melodies to which they are sung, few perhaps think 
of the pious prelate who wrote them, and fewer still, of his con¬ 
nexion with one of the most exciting scenes ever witnessed even in 
Westminster Hall—that theatre of surpassing excitement for so 
many centuries. Kenn was one of the seven bishops there tried 
in 1688, on the eve of the Revolution —that event being in no 
small degree produced by this proceeding. He was a man of pure 
devotion and intrepid honesty; and an anecdote is told of his 
refusing to admit to his lodgings the infamous Nell G-wyn, when 
she accompanied Charles it. and his court to Winchester. The 
king, instead of resenting his boldness, bestowed on him a mitre, 
giving him the see of Bath and Wells. 

Lloyd, Bishop of St. Asaph, was another of the seven, “a 
proficient in philology, history, philosophy, and divinity, as if each 
of these had been the sole object of his application.” He was a 
distinguished preacher and controversialist, and materially assisted 
Burnet in his “History of the Reformation.” 

Turner, Bishop of Ely, was another. He was “an affected 
writer,” and in no way remarkable except as the early and intimate 
friend of Kenn. Lake, Bishop of Chichester, was another, who, 
notwithstanding his share in the resistance of James, declared on 
his death-bed his belief in the doctrine of passive obedience. 


\ 


THE SEVEN BISHOPS AND SACHEVEEELL. 


263 


Trelawney, Bishop of Bristol, was another—a man of ability, u of 
polite manners, competent learning, and uncommon knowledge of 
the world.” White, Bishop of Peterborough, was another—a 
person who seems to have been distinguished only by his connexion 
with this trial. 

The leader of the band was Sancroft, Archbishop of Canterbury, 
whose usually timid and irresolute disposition was overcome on 
this occasion. It is curious that, after being placed, as it is said 
he was, at the head of the church, because he was of a recluse 
and meditative turn, and not likelv to disturb the court in their 
designs upon the people, he should appear at the head of a pro¬ 
ceeding which served so greatly to put an end to the reign of 
arbitrary power, liefusing to take the oaths at the Revolution, 
he was deprived of his bishopric and retired into obscurity, which 
he preferred to the cares and trials of office; and when living in a 
private house in London, after being accustomed to Lambeth 
Palace, it is said he was visited by the Earl of Aylesbury, who was 
affected to tears on seeing him come to open.his own door. “Oh! 
my good lord,” observed he, “rather rejoice with me; for now 1 
live again.” 

Kenn, Lake, White, and Turner, as well as Sancroft, after 
opposing James, proved nonjurors under William—advocates of a a 
invariable legitimate succession, as well as high churchmen— 
teachers of the divine right of kings and of passive obedience, 
though professing themselves friends to toleration. Their conduct 
as non jurors was more in harmony with their abstract political 
principles than the course which they pursued towards king James. 
That brought them into Westminster Hall as culprits, before the 
tribunal of a despotic prince, and so made them popular with mul¬ 
titudes of their contemporaries, who, in other respects, would not 
sympathize with them; at the same time it has rendered their 
names illustrious in the eyes of posterity, notwithstanding the 


264 


ECHOES OF WESTMINSTER HALL. 


repugnance of modern opinion to their conscientiously cherished 
maxims. 

James issued a declaration of indulgence on his own simple 
authority; thus, indeed, by relieving from penal statutes against 
religion, conferring a benefit, but then doing it at the expense of a 
fundamental principle—that the king has no power to set aside 
any of the laws of the realm. “ The motives of this declaration,” 
observes Mr. Hallam, “ was not so much to relieve the Roman 
Catholics from penal and incapacitating statutes (which were 
virtually at an end), as by extending to the Protestant Dissenters 
the same full measure of toleration, to enlist under the standard 
of arbitrary power those who had been its most intrepid and 
steadiest adversaries.” This declaration James commanded the 
clergy to read in the churches. This led to the petition of the 
seven bishops, who prayed for the withdrawment of the order, and 
that no alteration might be made but by consent of the whole 
legislature. The objection they felt to reading the declaration 
rested, they said, nob on any want of duty to the king, nor any 
want of tenderness to the Dissenters, but on the dispensing power 
which it involved, so often declared to be illegal. The king was 
angry at this petition, which was soon printed and extensively 
circulated. 

On the day appointed for reading the declaration at church, few 
complied. One clergyman preached from the text, “ Be it known 
unto thee, 0 king, that we will not serve thy gods, nor worship the 
golden image thou hast set up.” Another announced, “ My 
brethren, I am obliged to read this declaration, but you are not 
obliged to listen;” so out the people went, and the minister pro¬ 
ceeded to repeat the royal decree to empty benches. James re 
solved to proceed against the refractory prelates for a seditious 
libel, into which the crown lawyers were to construe the petition. 

The seven bishops were committed to the Tower on the 8th of 


THE SEVEN BISHOPS AND SACIiEVEIiELL. 


265 


June. They went there by water; and the people, whose sympa¬ 
thies were with them, lined the banks and cheered them by the 
way, rendering their imprisonment a perfect ovation. “ The con¬ 
cern of the people,” says Evelyn, “ was wonderful; infinite crowds 
on their knees begging their blessing, and praying for them as 
they passed.’ The soldiers of the garrison received them most 
reverently, and went down on their knees to beg an episcopal 
blessing. The seven went to the Tower Chapel, it being the time 
of evening prayer, and there the deep excitement of the hour was 
at once heightened and softened by a passage which occurred in 
the second lesson, so full of comfort and hope to the prisoners : “ I 
have heard thee in a time accepted, and in the day of salvation I 
have succoured thee. Behold, now is the accepted time ; behold, 
now is the day of salvation.” 

All over London and the country the talk was of the captives. 
Ten Nonconformists came as a deputation from them brethren, 
with an address of condolence. Twenty-eight peers offered to bail 
them. Messages, too, came from Holland, expressing the interest 
of the Prince and Princess of Orange in their fate. 

On the 15th, the bishops were brought to Westminster to the . 
Court of King’s Bench. The papal nuncio saw the procession, and 
informs us :—“ Of the immense concourse of people who received 
them on the bank and followed them to the hall, the greater part 
fell upon their knees, wishing them happiness and asking their 
blessing ; and the Archbishop of Canterbury laid his hands on 
those that were nearest, telling them to be firm in their faith ; and 
the people cried out that all should kneel, and tears were seen to 
flow from the eyes of many.” 

Westminster Hall has raised its huge form many a time, like an 
old rock out of the bosom of the sea, as crowds on crowds of excited 
people have surrounded it. On this occasion the ocean of heads 
was more immense than ever, while surges of feeling rose and 

K 2 


26(3 ECHOES OF WESTMINSTER HALL. 

rolled and broke every moment. All London seemed on the spot, 
and all the spirit of the nation concentrated there. Within were 
the lawyers arguing. The Attorney-General required the prisoners 
to plead forthwith, to which the counsel for the bishops objected. 
However, the objections were overruled, and the bishops put in the 
plea of “ not guilty,” and were then released on bail. This the 
people took for a triumph, and set no bounds to their joy when 
“ the seven ” came out. Huzzas rent the air; the abbey bells 
rung; the streets were thronged all the way the bishops went; 
bonfires were lighted at night; Roman Catholics were maltreated; 
and execrations poured on all false bishops. 

On the 29th of June, the grand trial took place in Westminster 
Hall. One of the most worthless men that ever sat on the bench, 
Lord Chief Justice Wright, the protegS of the infamous Jeffreys, 
presided on this occasion. Oddly enough, Sawyer and Finch, two 
lawyers who had been the, state prosecutors in the reign of 
Charles n., and had conducted the proceedings against Lord 
William Russell, now appeared on the side of the prosecuted : 
while Williams, the Whig advocate, now Solicitor-General, with 
Powys, the Attorney-General, and others, acted on the side of the 
king. This strange confusion of parties led not only to remark 
and raillery among the bystanders, but to fierce attack and re¬ 
crimination among themselves; one charging another with gross 
inconsistency, and each having the best of it in assault and the 
worst of it in defence. Lords and gentlemen attended the accused 
into court, and barons in abundance sat ranged in rows beside the 
judges, severely scrutinizing the acts of their lordships, and keep¬ 
ing Wright in something like order; for he did not know but that 
they might be his judges before long, so that, it is said, he looked 
“ as if all the peers present had halters in their pockets.” Such 
was the deep feeling produced in the audience, that there was no 
maintaining the usual order of a court: witnesses and counsel even 


l 


THE SEVEN BISHOPS AND SACHEVERELL. 


267 


cheered; the men on the bench could not repress the bursts of 
applause, and did not dare to make an example of the offenders. 

The prisoners were charged with writing and publishing a 
seditious libel in Middlesex ; but neither of those points could be 
legally proved, though the presentation of the petition was ad¬ 
mitted. Indeed, the Chief Justice was about to direct a verdict of 
acquittal, when the imprudent interruption of Finch gave a new 
direction to the business. Lord Sunderland, president of the 
council, was sent for to give evidence, and in passing down to 
Westminster Hall, in a sedan chair, was exposed to the insults of 
the mob, who called him “ a popish dogand when he appeared 
in court, it was with manifest terror. He proved the publication 
according to the indictment. Then came a grand struggle as to 
the lawfulness of the king’s dispensing power. Wright tried to 
prevent the discussion of this point, but in vain. The counsel for 
the defence fought it hard, and had public opinion with them. 

“ We shall be here till midnight,” exclaimed the Solicitor-General. 

“ They have no mind to have an end of the cause, for they have 
kept it up three hours longer than they have need to have done,” 
rejoined the Chief Justice. “ If you say anything more,” he added, 
to the opposing counsel, “ pray let me advise you one thing: don’t 
say the same thing over and over again; for after so much time 
spent, it is irksome to all company as me.” 

Williams out-heroded Herod in his course of argument, when it 
came to his turn to reply. “ The Lords,” he said, “ may address 
the king in parliament, and the Commons may do it; but therefore 
that the bishops may do it out of parliament does not follow. I’ll 
tell you what they should have done; if they were commanded to 
do anything against their consciences, they should have acquiesced, 
till the meeting of the parliament.” 

The people in the court hissed at this. The summing up o 1 the 
Chief Justice was not so bad as might have been expected ; and on 


268 


ECHOES OF WESTMINSTER HALL. 


the legal point, as to whether the petition was libellous, there was 
a difference of opinion among the puisne judges. 

At the end of this part of the proceedings, his lordship, who 
presided, said : “Gentlemen of the jury, have you a mind to drink 
before you go ?” To that they had no objection, and therefore wine 
was brought, and they had a glass apiece; after which they were 
shut up in the dark, without meat or drink, till they could agree 
< >n a verdict. The secrets of their prison-house have been told, and 
we learn that Mr. Arnold, the king’s brewer, opposed the rest all 
night, and that unanimity was secured at six o’clock the next 
morning, by a juryman saying: “ Look at me, I am the largest and 
strongest of the twelve, and before I find such a petition as this a 
libel, here I will stay till I am no bigger than a tobacco-pipe.” 

At nine o’clock the verdict was given, not guilty . Up rose a 
shout of joy that made the old hall ring again, and the echo was 
prolonged from one end of London to the other, and from one end 
of the country to the other. It went rolling along the streets and 
along the river, and when the bishops came out, it was caught up, 
and as they entered the barges it burst out afresh. The people 
again knelt down, and begged the bishops’ blessing. Money was 
thrown about to drink their healths, and that of the king and the 
jury. There was bell-ringing again, and bonfires again, and the 
pope was burnt in effigy. James was at Hounslow reviewing the 
troops, and, on hearing a great noise, asked, “ What was the 
matter ?” 

“ Nothing but the soldiers shouting for the acquittal of the 
bishops.” 

“ Call you that nothing ?” he might well ask; “but so much the 
worse for them,” he insanely added. 

The judges on this occasion did not please their master. Two 
were dismissed, and the wretched Chief Justice was nigh being 
cashiered; but he kept his seat a little longer, only to lose it at the 


THE SEVEN BISHOPS AND SACHEVERELL. 


269 


Revolution, and then to be sent to Newgate, where he died in a 
few days of fever, brought on by intense vexation. He was buried 
with felons, not in a decent grave, but in a common pit. 

The trial of Sacheverell, in the reign of Queen Anne, was another 
of the remarkable scenes in Westminster Hall; but, while in 
excitement it rivalled the trial of the seven bishops, their character 
and that of the individual who was now arraigned were far as the 
poles asunder. Whereas their resistance to arbitrary power was 
on principle, and did honour to their conscientious motives, the 
conduct for which he had now to answer was inspired by a morbid 
craving after popularity, mingled with the most rabid fanaticism. 
The seven bishops for the most part were men of learning, piety, 
and reputation; but Sacheverell was as weak, ignorant, unprincipled, 
and, until his violence made him notorious, as obscure and unknown 
a creature as ever entered a pulpit. They throughout acted on 
their own convictions, as persons of perfect integrity and honour; 
but he was employed as the tool of a miserable political faction, to 
serve the most selfish and unworthy ends. We introduce the trial 
of Sacheverell as a contrast to that of the seven bishops, and we 
would particularly point to the lesson which it reads of the worth¬ 
lessness of popularity obtained by dishonourable means. 

Sacheverell was a clergyman in the Borough—a Tory and high 
churchman, with stentorian voice, which he lustily employed in 
the abuse of toleration and of the Whig party. Employed to preach 
in St. Paul’s cathedral before the corporation, he gave vent to in's 
furious zeal, by denouncing the means which brought about the 
Revolution, by condemning those who favoured liberty of conscience, 
by declaring the Church of England to be in danger under the 
existing administration, and by vilifying the Ministers of her 
Majesty, reprobating their acts, and calling them by odious names. 
The sermon was published, and had a large circulation; when, 
instead of allowing the man’s bombast and rant to die away, the 


270 


ECHOES OF WESTMINSTER HALL. 


government took steps for his prosecution. The matter was dragged 
before parliament; Sacheverell was impeached, and his trial was 
arranged to take place in Westminster Hall. 

The trial opened on the 27th of February, 1710, with a wonderful 
deal of show and ceremony. A box was prepared near the throne 
for the queen, who attended in a private character. On the one 
side of the hall benches were erected for the Commons of Great 
Britain, and accommodations were provided for noble ladies and 
gentlewomen. There was a kind of platform raised for the mana¬ 
gers of the impeachment, and another for the doctor and his counsel. 
There were galleries erected at the end for the people, who flocked 
thither in such vast numbers as to excite a dread that the whole 
erection would come toppling down upon the heads of those beneath. 
The noble ladies who attended the trial were very much afraid lest 
somewhat in their dress or behaviour there should give occasion to 
the “ Tatler ” or “ Observator ” to turn them into ridicule in its 
papers; they came thither to see and to be seen, or else out of ground¬ 
less opinion that the Church of England would be ruined by the 
punishment which was to be inflicted upon this one priest. The 
Whig ladies and the Tory ladies took the deepest interest in the 
trial, and might be easily distinguished from each other, at least by 
practised eyes, according to the arrangement of the little black 
patches on their faces, or the colour of their hoods—things then 
among the signs of political opinion, as declarative as the cockades 
in the old borough elections. Of the fair bevy on the Whig side, 
the Countess of Sunderland, a daughter of Marlborough, might be 
counted a leader, the Duchess of Hamilton being one of the most 
conspicuous dames of the Tory chair. 

Several eminent lawyers were employed to conduct the prose¬ 
cution ; Sacheverell also had the aid of distinguished counsel, and, 
moreover, Smallridge and Atterbury appeared at his side during 
the trial. Walpole, then rising into fame, made an eloquent 


THE SEVEN BISHOPS AND SACHEVERELL. 


271 


speech, he being one of the managers for the Commons. “I hope,” 
said he, “that your lordships’ just judgment will convince the 
world that every seditious, discontented, hot-headed, ungifted, un¬ 
edifying preacher (the doctor will pardon me for borrowing one 
string of epithets from him, and for once using a little of his own 
language), who has no hope of distinguishing himself in the world, 
but by a matchless indiscretion, may not advance with impunity 
doctrines destructive of the peace and quiet of her Majesty’s govern¬ 
ment and the Protestant succession ; or prepare the minds of the 
people for an alteration by giving them ill impressions of the 
present establishment and its administration. This doctrine of 
unlimited unconditional passive obedience was first invented to 
support arbitrary and despotic power, and was never promoted or 
countenanced by any government that had not designs some time 
or other of making use of it. What, then, can be the design of 
preaching this doctrine now unasked, unsought for, in her Majesty’s 
reign, when the law is the only ruling measure, both of the power 
of the Crown and of the obedience of the people ?” Sacheverell’s 
defence was prepared for him, as it displayed an ability of which, 
every one knew, he was not the possessor. He called God and the 
holv angels to bear witness to his innocence, at which my Ladv 
Sunderland wept, and her Grace of Hamilton burst into rapture. 

The trial lasted for more than three weeks, during which nothing 
could exceed the uproarious demonstrations made in favour of the 
doctor by the mob. He came daily to the hall, escorted by the 
multitude all the way from the Temple, where he lodged, while 
people crowded balconies and windows, showering down expressions 
of regard, sometimes even substantial presents. He rode in a 
sedan chair, nodding and bowing like a Chinese mandarin. One 
day, when the queen was going to witness the proceedings, the 
populace gathered round her chair, crying out, “ Bless your majesty 
and the church! we hope your majesty is for Dr. SacheverellP 


272 


ECHOES OF WESTMINSTER HALL. 


Members of parliament, going along in their coaches, were some¬ 
times forced to take off their hats, and cry, “ Sacheverell for ever P 
Party wa 3 pitted against party. It was a trial of political strength 
between the two grand political divisions of the country; and the 
Tories, having got the mob on their side, failed not to encourage 
their boisterous enthusiasm. But that enthusiasm rose to an excess 
and took a direction which at last frightened its instigators, for a 
tremendous riot occurred. Meeting-houses were attacked, and an 
episcopal chapel was destroyed, because, having no steeple, it was 
taken for a conventicle. Burnet’s house, too, was attacked, and 
the Bank of England threatened. The riot, however, was happily 
put down without bloodshed, and at last the miserable trial came 
to an end by Sacheverell being found guilty. 

Kneeling at the bar, the Lord Chancellor pronounced sentence:— 
“ You, Henry Sacheverell, doctor in divinity, shall be, and you are 
hereby enjoined, not to preach during the term of three years next 
ensuing; and your two printed sermons shall be burnt before the 
Royal Exchange, at one of the clock in the afternoon, by the 
common hangman, in the presence of the Lord Mayor and Sheriffs 
of London.” 

Of course this was a punishment which the doctor was proud to 
receive. Sacheverell’s party exulted, and had illuminations and 
bonfires and regalings on barrels of beer. 

At the end of the three years’ silence, his printer gave him £100 
for his sermon; the House of Commons ordered him to preach 
before them, thanked him for his discourse, and the ministry gave 
him the rectory of St. Andrew’s, Iiolborn. Such were the con¬ 
sequences of this great trial, which, neither on the part of the 
prosecution, nor the arraigned, had any associations of moral dignity 
to save it from the contempt and ridicule of posterity. 


273 


VIII. JACOBITES AND AN INDIAN VICEROY. 

Westminster Hall was built in the clays of feudalism. Its 
earliest history is full of feudal associations. As we look upon its 
noble architecture, we are irresistibly carried back to feudal times. 
The chivalrous sentiments, born and bred of feudalism, often 
prompting to acts at once honourable and wild, generous and 
lawless, self-denying and violent, are forcibly brought to our 
recollection while we now walk up and down the old pavement 
which leads to the line of courts devoted to the peaceful adminis¬ 
tration of English law, order, and justice. In this last paper on 
the hall, we shall behold the expiring flashes of mediaeval chivalry; 
we shall catch echoes of its dying voice, and also witness signs of 
the inauguration, or rather proofs of the establishment of another 
and totally different order of things, involving the system of 
modern civilization. 

Among the distinctive traits of the chivalrous spirits of the 
middle ages, was the strong devotion of a liege to his lord. It was 
not devotion to a principle or an office, to an order of things 
revered and preserved from considerations of convenience or from 
calm convictions of duty, but devotion to a person—a strong, 
unreasoning, passionate kind of instinct, which bound the inferior 
to him whom he deemed his lord—bound him to his fortunes, 
prosperous or adverse—bound him in bonds of strong and hearty 
sympathy for life and death. The loyalty of the old barons to 
their king and his family was of this chivalrous stamp. It was not 
attachment to the crown and the throne and the constitution, with 
feelings of affection to the person of the sovereign, growing out of 
that impersonal sort of attachment; but it was, first and foremost. 


274 


ECHOES OF WESTMINSTER HALL. 


attachment to the person of a particular monarch and his race, 
deemed to have divine right to rule, not deriving his authority in 
any of the ways pointed out in modern theories of political govern¬ 
ment, but getting and holding it in some mysterious and direct 
way from Heaven itself. The loyal knights of the Henries and 
Edwards were thus chivalrous in their loyalty; and it was this 
chivalrous love for particular persons and families, regarded as 
legitimate heirs to the royalty of England, which alone redeems the 
wars of the Roses from the character of a mere factious squabble* 
A good deal of the spirit of chivalry survived the extinction of its 
forms; and nowhere did it linger on so long as in Scotland, where 
the relations of clanship, so akin to feudalism, even still exist. At 
the bottom of the great rebellions of 1715 and 1745, when so many 
Highlanders took up arms in the cause of the Pretender, lay not a 
little of this sentiment of chivalrous loyalty. There were other 
sentiments, personal, political, and religious, most base and un¬ 
worthy, selfish and vindictive, superstitious and tyrannical, blended 
with this; but not so as to destroy, not so as to prevent its supreme 
authority in the breasts of many of the unhappy adherents of the 
Stuart line. They had no notion of a constitutional claim to the 
throne. Acts of parliament and the will of the people could not 
set aside, in their estimation, the descent of inheritance. The 
Stuarts were still their kings, as they had been the kings of their 
fathers, despite of unconstitutional acts. They would fight for 
them; they would die for them. Adversity only endeared their 
persons the more. Not a whit less was Prince Charles a king 
because he was crownless. The enthusiastic Jacobite saw a kind of 
celestial halo playing round the brow of the outcast heir, brighter 
than the gold and jewelled diadem on the head of a son of the 
house of Hanover. 

Distinguished among the state trials in Westminster Hall are 
those of the noblemen who, in 1716 and 1746, were placed at the 


JACOBITES AND AN INDIAN VIOEIiOY. 


275 


bar for taking up arms in the service of the Pretender. The 
Earl of Derwentwater, Lord Widdrington, the Earls of Nithsdale, 
Winton, and Carnwath, Viscount Kenmure, and Lord Nairn, were 
the culprits on the first occasion, and were formally arraigned, all 
pleading guilty but one, and throwing themselves upon the mercy 
of King George. Two ot them only were executed—Lord 
Derwentwater and Lord Kenmure—the former declaring that he 
died a Roman Catholic, and that he regretted having pleaded 
guilty on his trial. Lord Nithsdale effected his escape from the 
Tower, through a stratagem of his wife, who changed clothes with 
her husband, and thus enabled him, in her dress, to pass the 
sentinels undetected. 

After the second Rebellion, in ’45, Westminster Hall was 
employed for the trial of the Earls of Kilmarnock and Cromartie 
and Lord Balmerino. These noblemen appeared at the bar on the 
28th of July, 1746. “Three parts of Westminster Hall,” Horace 
Walpole tells us, “were enclosed with galleries and hung with 
scarlet, and the whole ceremony was conducted with the most 
awful solemnity. No part of the royal family was there, which 
was a proper regard to the unhappy men who were to become their 
victims. One hundred and thirty-nine lords were present. I had 
armed myself with all the resolution I could, wfith the thought of 
the prisoners’ crimes and of the danger past, and was assisted by 
the sight of the Marquis of Lothian, in weepers for his son, who 
fell at Culloden; but the first appearance of the prisoners shocked 
me, and their behaviour melted me.” “Kilmarnock and Cromartie 
pleaded guilty; the latter especially professing remorse and shed¬ 
ding tears. Balmerino played a very different part, and endeavoured 
to defend himself. He was a man of wit; and when asked a 
question by Mr. Murray, Solicitor-General, he inquired who he 
was, and then added : “ Oh ! Mr. Murray, I am extremely glad to 
see you. I have been with several of your relations: the good 


276 


ECHOES OF WESTMINSTER HALL. 


lady, your mother, was of great use to ns at Perth.” Walpole, 
speaking of Balmerino, observes: “ He is the most natural, brave 
old fellow I ever saw ; the highest intrepidity, even to indifference. 
At the bar he behaved like a soldier and a man; in the intervals 
of form, with carelessness and humour. At the bar he plays with 
his finger on the axe, while he talks to the gentleman gaoler ; and 
one day, somebody coming up to listen, he took the blade and held 
it like a fan between their faces. During the trial, a little boy 
was near him, but not tall enough to see ; accordingly he made 
room for the child, and placed him near himself.” 

When brought up for sentence, Kilmarnock and Cromartie sued 
for mercy; the former pleading with much eloquence, the latter 
with greater effect, from his allusion to Lady Cromartie, who was 
on the point of confinement. “My own fate,” said he, “is the 
least part of my suffering; but, my lords, I have involved an 
affectionate wife, with an unborn infant, as parties of my guilt, to 
share its penalties. I have involved my eldest son, whose youth 
and regard for his parents hurried him down the stream of rebellion. 
I have involved eight innocent children, who must feel their pa¬ 
rent’s punishment before they know his guilt. Let the silent 
eloquence of their grief and tears supply my want of persuasion.” 
The lady herself earnestly pleaded for the life of her husband, and 
other influence was employed on his behalf. The consequence 
was that he was saved; but it is curious to learn that the child 
to whom his wife gave birth just afterwards was marked on the neck 
with an impression like that of a broad axe. 

Balmerino did not attempt to awaken pity or ask for mercy. 
He avowed his loyalty to King James with chivalrous devotion ; 
spoke of his holding a commission under Queen Anne as an act 
of treason to his lawful prince; and declared that with his full 
heart he drew the sword in 1745, though his age might have 
excused him from doing so. Not any intercessions were employed 


I 


JACOBITES AND AN INDIAN VICEROY. 277 

for saving him, whence George n. exclaimed, “ Will no one say a 
word on behalf of Lord Balmerino ? He, though a rebel, is at 
least an honest one.” He and Kilmarnock were executed. 

There were many besides tried for their share in the rebellion ; 
but there is only one other connected with Westminster Hall whom 
we would notice—that is, Charles Kadcliffe, brother of the Earl 
of Derwentwater, who was executed in 171G. He was engaged in 
both rebellions, and was twice tried and twice condemned at 
Westminster. In the first instance he was arraigned on the 8th 
of May, 1716, and a few days afterwards received sentence of death. 
When going through Fleet-street, he happened to meet George i. 
starting for his first visit to Hanover after his accession to the 
throne of England ; and it is related that this obliged Mr. Radcliffe’s 
coach to stop, “ which happening opposite a distiller’s shop (the 
third door on the right hand towards Temple Bar), he called for 
half a pint of aniseed, which he and his fellow prisoner drank, and 
then proceeded to Westminster, where sentence of death was pro¬ 
nounced upon them.” He managed to get out of prison during 
a grand entertainment he gave to his friends, and escaped to 
France, where he for some time lived in indigence. He returned 
to England subsequently, and, though unmolested, remained 
unpardoned. 

In 1745 he a second time embarked in rebellion, was captured, 
and, on the 20th of November, 1746, was again carried to West¬ 
minster to be arraigned for high treason. He puzzled the Court 
by challenging them to prove his identity. This occasioned delay ; 
but at length the point was established by certain persons, who 
recognised in his face a scar, which he had received from a piece 
of iron, when he was a boy, playing in a blacksmith’s shop at 
Dilston, in Northumberland, where he had been brought up on his 
ancestral domains. 

The following pathetic letter was written by him in the Tower 


278 


ECHOES OF WESTMINSTER HALL. 


just before his execution, thirty years after sentence of death was 
first pronounced. 

“ From the Tower, Dec. 7th, 1746. 

“ The best of friends takes his leave of you : he has made 
his will, he is resigned. To-morrow is the day—love his memory 
—let his friends join with you in prayer—’tis no misfortune to die 
prepared—let’s love our enemies and pray for them. My blessing 
to them all ; my kind love to Fanny, that other tender mother of 
my dear children. 

“ Adieu, dear friend, 

“ Dekwentwater.”* 

“ The age of chivalry is gone,” said Mr. Burke; and true enough 
such chivalry as that we have just been describing is gone, and 
Westminster Hall has heard the last of it. Appropriately may the 
remark just quoted introduce us to the last of the great historical 
associations of the old edifice. We propose to notice that very 
memorable trial, of which Mr. Burke had the chief management 
—the trial of Warren Hastings ; involving questions of a different 
kind from any which arose in the chivalrous days of England— 
charges of another order and spirit from those brought against the 
Jacobite lords, and principles and views indicative of a new order 
of civilization, that which belongs to an empire rich in colonial 
possessions, retained indeed by the power of the sword, but acquired 
and valued for purposes of commercial enterprise. 

Mr. Hastings was for eleven years Governor-General of India, 
being appointed to that high position in 1774, and quitting it in 
1785. There can be no doubt that he greatly contributed to the 
consolidation of the British empire in the East; but the principles 
of expediency which he adopted, and the maxim expressed and 

* Charles RadelifTe assumed the title of Earl of Derwentwater after his brother 
execution. 


JACOBITES AND AN INDIAN VICEROY. 


279 


defended by him, that Indian statesmen were not to be judged by 
European rules of morality and justice, would of themselves raise the 
darkest suspicions as to the manner in which the ends of his 
policy were secured. Charges of corruption and cruelty were 
publicly rumoured against him before his return to this country; 
and soon afterwards, Mr. Burke commenced the institution of an 
inquiry into the Governor-General’s conduct. In 1786, articles of 
impeachment were produced in parliament, accusing him of injustice 
towards the native princes and people—the impoverishment and 
desolation of the British dominions in the East—the acceptance of 
presents, contrary to law—influence or connivance with regard 
to unfair contracts—together with enormous extravagance and 
bribery. In 1788, the great trial began in Westminster Hall. 
Belonging to modern times—indeed within the memory of some 
living, being so fully described and alluded to by contemporaries, 
then in the zenith of life, having employed the talents and oratory 
of men of whom many of us heard so much in our boyhood, being 
mixed up with so many household names—the proceedings and 
their associations become to us most vivid pictures, and we seem to 
be living at the time, to be familiar w r ith all that took place, and 
even to be present at the august spectacle, for august most certainly 
it was. 

We enter the hall at eleven o’clock of the 13th of Februarv, 
1788. Grand have been the preparations; and the cold, grim- 
looking old place is transformed into an immense judicial theatre— 
a House of Lords enlarged to a gigantic scale, and fitted up for 
hosts of spectators. Scarcely any part of the building can be seen, 
except the enormous ribs of the roof and the tops of the windows, 
all the rest being covered by seats and galleries, rich in scarlet and 
green. A huge deep gallery runs up in front of you, concealing 
most of the large window at the end. Just in advance of that is 
the throne, with royal boxes on each side. Running down on either 


280 


ECHOES OF WESTMINSTER HALL. 


hand, as you look up the hall, are lofty galleries, and underneath 
them; far projecting into the area, are raised seats with a partition 
at the bottom between them and the open space in the middle of 
the hall. There are the benches for the House of Lords. Below 
the bar are boxes for counsel, and the conductors of the trial. All 
those galleries are crammed from bottom to top, with people of 
rank and wealth—many of importance, and a few of world-wide 
celebrity. Ladies of fashion and beauty are there. Men of eru¬ 
dition, genius, and taste are there. The famous political Duchess 
of Devonshire is there. Mrs. Siddons, the actress, is there. Mrs. 
Fitzlierbert, privately married to the Prince of Wales, is there. 
Gibbon the historian is there. Dr. Parr is there. Reynolds the 
painter is there; and Gainsborough, too, is there, who, by the way, 
is catching his death of cold. In the royal boxes are Queen 
Charlotte and her daughters; on the middle benches, in front 
of the Lord Chancellor, who presides, are the twelve judges in 
their robes of state, and about a hundred and seventy peers, in 
their crimson velvet mantles, gold and ermine, marshalled to 
their places by heralds in splendid tabards. The conductors of 
the trial, including the great names of Burke, Sheridan, 
Windham, Fox, and Grey, the latter then rising into fame—a 
youth of promise among veterans who have won the highest honours 
—occupy the appointed compartment by the bar, dressed in court 
suits; and near them are lawyers in their gowns and wigs, among 
whom may be seen Law, Dallas, and Plumer, destined to be high 
legal officers afterwards 

The Serjeant-at-Arms calls for silence ; Warren Hastings, esquire, 
is summoned to appear; and, amidst the alternate buzz and hush 
—the thousand eyes directed to the bar, the glittering of uplifted 
glasses, and the pomp and ceremony of a stately introduction—in 
comes a small thin man, with intellect, self-possession, care, and 
sorrow depicted in his countenance, as he kneels before this supreme 


JACOBITES AND AN INDIAN VICEROY. 


281 


court, and listens to the further proclamation of the Serjeant-at- 
Arms, that he, “ Warren Hastings, stands charged with high crimes 
and misdemeanors by the Commons of England, who are now to 
come and make good their charges.” Whereupon Lord Chancellor 
Thurlow makes a short speech, assuring him of a full impartial 
trial, and Hastings replies that he is equally satisfied as to his own 
integrity and the justice of the court. The charges and answers 
then begin, the clerks of the court reading them on and on; till it is 
a quarter past five, and the old hall is getting dark on this February 
afternoon, and everybody is tired, and yet only the seventh charge 
is reached, and there are thirteen more to come. So the Lord 
Chancellor moves that the Lords do adjourn. The assembly 
separates, and all London is full of the great event of the day. 

The next day is taken up in a similar manner, and not till the 
third day does Mr. Burke rise to deliver his opening speech. 
Gentle reader, you may have heard some long speeches in your 
life: here is a man delivering one that lasts four days; but, then, 
he is a man as rare in the annals of oratory as the length of the 
speech. With a knowledge of India which makes you think he 
must have been there all his life, though he never stepped on its 
shores; with an imagination and mastery of graphic picturesque 
words, which enables him to paint in thought as Reynolds and 
Gainsborough paint on canvas; with a power of philosophical 
analysis and acute logical argument, which perhaps no other man 
in the hall can command; and with strong moral feelings, wrought 
up into violent passion and even frenzy by the description of the 
crimes he charges on the illustrious prisoner at the bar; he 
produces every now and then—with of course, in so long a speech? 
intervals of weariness, inattention, and indifference—scenes of 
excitement scarcely paralleled. Ladies are fainting; Mrs. Sheridan 
is carried out in convulsions; sobs and tears are heard all over the 
hall. Old Thurlow himself is affected, and even Hastings acknow- 


I 


282 


ECHOES OF WESTMINSTER HALL. 


ledges: “ For half an hour I looked up at the orator in a reverie 
of wonder, and during that space I actually felt myself the most 
culpable man on earth ; but I recurred to my own bosom, and there 
found a consciousness that consoled me under all I heard and all I 
suffered.” 

The four days’ speech over, there come debatings about the 
manner of conducting the trial; that settled, sixteen days are con¬ 
sumed hearing evidence ; at the end of which, what with previous 
arguments and delays, summer is come ; and instead of a cold 
February morning, Sheridan has the morning of the third of June 
to begin the summing up of evidence. The hall is as crammed as 
ever. It is said, fifty guineas have been paid for a ticket to get in. 
There are no bounds to the excitement. The orator, as great in 
his own way as Burke in his, declaims elaborately, yet with 
immense impression, for two days, and then falls back exhausted, 
with a rhetorical, “ My Lords, I have done,” into the arms of his 
great colleague, who hugs him with admiration. 

The prorogation of parliament advances, and as yet only two out 
of the twenty items of impeachment have been heard. The pro¬ 
ceedings linger through years ; and not till 1795, seven years after 
the trial began, is the business finished, and the verdict given. 
Excitement has abated; opinion has changed. There has come 
a reaction since the astounding speeches of Burke and Sheridan 
were delivered. Cross-questioned evidence has produced a very 
different effect from warm, glowing, impassioned oratory. An 
acquittal is expected, and it comes. 

In the spring of 1795 there is again a crowd in Westminster 
Hall. The peers vote, “Not guilty,” The Lord Chancellor on 
the woolsack informs Hastings of this; he bows, and retires. The 
charges of his defence have amounted to more than 76,000?.; but 
the East India Company lend him 50,000?., and grant him a pension 
of 4000?. per annum. He devotes himself to quietude and study; 


JACOBITES AND AN INDIAN VICEROY. 


283 


but once again, in 1813, appears in public, to give evidence to the 
House of Commons on the question of renewing the East India 
Company’s charter. The members simultaneously rise to show 
honour to the man their predecessors had arraigned for high crimes 
and misdemeanors between twenty and thirty years before. 

We hare done. The echoes of Westminster Hall awaken solemn 
thoughts—thoughts of man and time—thoughts of nations and 
providence—thoughts of the great ocean into which time is pour¬ 
ing its streams—thoughts of the Infinite Ruler and Judge who 
governs all beings and events—thoughts “ of the silent waiting- 
hall, where Adam meeteth with his children”—thoughts of the 
great tribunal, at which all shall be arraigned, and where so many 
earthly judgments shall be reversed. These are thoughts for 
deep, deep pondering, which may well wake up in the hearts of all 
echoes of faith and prayer. 


[These Papers are reprinted from the “Leisure Hour” of 1852 and 1856, which 
will account for several references not applicable at the present time.] Ed. 




285 


INDEX. 


Abney, Sir Thomas and Lady, 105, 107, 
109. 

Abney Park, 104, 121. 

Addison, Joseph, 79-92. 

Aldersgate-street, 20. 

Allhallows Church, Bread-street, 18. 
Andrew Marvell and Lord W. Russell, 
58-69. 

Anne Boleyn, 214. 

Anne, Queen, 269. 

Annesley, Sir John, 251-256. 

Archbishop of Canterbury, 232. 
Archbishop of York, 209. 

Arnold, Dr., 25. 

Art, remarks on the history of English, 
134. 

Artillery-walk, now Artillery-place, west, 
Bunhill-fields, 25. 

Arundel, Archbishop, 221, 235. 

Ashmole, the antiquary, 55. 

Bacon, Lord, 246. 

Balmerino, Lord, 275-280. 

Barbican, 20. 

Barristers, 241; Barristers’ wigs, 242. 
Barrow, Isaac, 80. 

Baxter, Richard, 29-43. 

Beaufort, Cardinal, 222. 

Bench and Bar, 239-250. 

Ben Jonson, 85. 

Berkeley House, 75. 

Bishops, the trial of the seven, 265. 
Blackstone, Judge, 131. 
Bloomsbury-square, 38, 67. 

Bolt-court, Fleet-street, 162, 165. 

Borougl) Compter, 194. 

Boswell, Mr., 153-158, 163. 

Boydell, Alderman, 146. 

Brambre, Sir Nicholas, 243, 244. 
Bread-street. 17, 18. 

Bridewell, 192. 

Brus, Robert de, 242. 


Bunhill-fields, 119. 

Burke, Edmund, 144, 166-182, 279-281. 
Button’s Tavern, Russell-street, Covent- 
garden, 87. 

Canonbury House, Islington, 128. 

Canute, 202. 

Carnwath, Earl, 275. 

Catherine, queen of Henry v., 213. 

Cave, the publisher, 151. 

Cavendish, Lord, 64. 

Chancellor, origin of the name, 219. 
Chancellor and Lord High Chancellor, 
219-221. 

Chancery-lane, 43, 238. 

Charles i., 258-261. 

Charles n., 27, 63, 262. 

Charles-street, 180. 

Charing-cross, 252. 

Charterhouse-square, 40, 41; Charterhouse 
School, 80. 

Chaucer, 12. 

Cheapside, 11, 36. 

Christ Church, 41. 

Christ’s Hospital, Newgate-street, 79. 
Clapton, 183, 185. 

Clerkenwell Bridewell, 192 ; St. John’s 
Gate, Clerkenwell, 151. 

Coke, Sir Edward, 245. 

Confessio Amantes, by Gower, 13. 

Courts of Exchequer, Common Pleas, 
King’s Bench, and Chancery, 219,220, 
Cowper, the poet, 31. 

Covent-garden, 58. 

Crabbe, the poet, 180,181. 

Cranmer, 49. 

Cromartie, Earl, 275. 

Cromwell House, Brompton, 181. 
Cromwell, Oliver, 21, 106, 215. 

Danby, Lord, 59. 

; Day, Judge, 132. 



286 


INDEX. 


David, king of Scotland, 11. 

Davy, Sir Humphrey, 94. 

Dean-street, 133. 

Derwent water, Earl of, 275. 

Devil’s Tavern, the, 85. 

De Way land. Lord Chief Justice, 144. 
Doddridge, Dr., 113, 114. 

Donne, Dr., 50, 52. 

Drury-lane, 58. 

Dryden, 26. 

Dymoke, the Champion of England, 212; 
Robert Dymoke, 214. 

Echoes of Westminster Hall, 199-283. 
Edward the Confessor, 202, 203, 217. 
Edward n., 229, 235. 

Edward m., 11, 235, 237. 

Edward the Black Prince, 11. 

Eleanor, Queen, 220. 

Elizabeth, Queen, 11; see Frontispiece. 
Elizabeth, Queen of Henry vn., 214. 
Ellwood, the Quaker, 24. 

Erskine, Mr., 250. 

Evelyn, of Wotton, John, 73, 75. 
Exeter-street, Catherine-street, Strand, 
150. 

Flamsteed, the astronomer, 100. 

Fleet Market, now Farringdon, 125. 

Fleet Prison, 191. 

Fleet-street, 43, 134. 

Foxe, the martyrologist, 27. 

Gascoigne, Lord Chief Justice, 245. 
George i., 102. 

George iv., 216. 

George of Denmark, Prince, 100. 

Gibbons, Dr., 109, 118. 

Godolphin, Margaret, 69-79. 

Goldsmith, Oliver, 121-134, 140,145,164, 
172. 

Gough-square, Fleet-street, 152,153. 
Gower, the poet, 12. 

Grattan, 132. 

Great Ormond-street, 195. 

Great Queen-street, 136. 
Green-Arbour-court, 125, 127. 

Hale, Judge, 247. 

Hallam, the historian, 170. 

Hannah More, 163. 


Hartopp, Sir John, 106. 

Havelock, Sir Henry, 80. 

Henry m., 209, 211, 218, 231. 

Henry iv., 212, 235. 

Henry v., 213, 222, 245. 

Henry vi., 11, 213, 

Henry vit., 214. 

Henry vm., 44, 215. 

Hogarth, 136. 

Holborn, 24, 152. 

Holland Arms, Kensington, 91. 

Holland House, Kensington, 90. 

Hone and Goldsmith. 129. 

House of Commons, old, 172,173. 

Howard, John, 182, 198. 

Hudson, the painter, 136. 

Humphrey Davy, Sir, 94. 

Inner Temple-lane, near Temple Bar, 153. 
Inns of Court, old, 44. 

Isaak Walton and his friends, 43-58. 

Isle of Thorney, 201, 206. 

Jacobites and an Indian Viceroy, 273-283. 
James n., 26, 263,264. 

Jeffreys, Judge, 246. 

Jermy n-street, 100. 

Jerusalem Chamber at Westminster, 103. 
Jewin-street, 24. 

Johnson, Dr. Samuel, 92, 130, 132, 133, 
134,139,140,143; memoir of, 148-166. 
Johnson’s-court, Fleet-street, 155, 156. 
Judicial combat, description of a, 251. 

Ivatrington, Thomas, 252. 

Kenn, Bishop, 262. 

Ken, Anne, 55. 

Ivenmure, Viscount, 275. 

Kensington palace, 102 ; OrbeH’s-build- 
ings, Bullingham-place, 103. 
Kilmarnock, Earl of, 275. 

Kings in ancient London, 11. 

Kings, acting as judges, the, 217. 

King’s Bench, Southwark, 193, 

Lambeth, 55. 

Lavington, Rev. Samuel, 116. 

Leicester-fields, 136; Leicester-square 
140, 147. 

Lincoln’s-inn-fields, 21, 61-66. 

Literary Club, the, 144, 165, 171. 




INDEX 


287 


London Wall, 32. 

Long-lane, Sinithfield, 182. 

Maiden-lane, 59, 60. 

Mansfield, Lord, 249. 

Marshalsea Prison, 194. 

Marvell, Andrew, 58-69. 

Matthew Henry, 39. 

Matthew Paris, 211, 218. 

Mellitus, Bishop of London, 201,202. 
Memories of Great Men in London, 8. 

Men of the Marble Chair, 217-227. 

Middle Temple, 166, 168. 

Milk-street, 35, 36. 

Millington, the celebrated auctioneer, 25. 
Milton, John, 17-29. 

Milton-street, Fore-street, 25. 

Monmouth, Alderman Henry, 15. 
Montague, Chief Justice, 246; Mrs. Mon¬ 
tague, 144. 

Montfort, Simon de, and Henry m., 234. 
More, Sir Thomas, 222-226 

Nairn, Lord, 275. 

Nell Gwyn, 82, 265. 

Nelson, Lord, 93, 147. 

Newgate Prison, 190. 

New Ludgate, Bishopsgate-street, 194. 
Newport-street, 139. 

Newton, Sir Isaac, 92-104. 

Nithsdale, Earl of, 275. 

Northcote, the artist, 137,142. 

Old London, 8-1J. 

Old Parliaments and Policy, 228-23 . 
Old St. Pauls, 13, 31. 

Onslow, the Right Honourable Mr. 117. 

Palgrave, Sir Francis, 228, 229. 

Parker and Dr. Watts, 118. 

Parliament, the new Plouses of, 206. 
Parliament-street, 175,176. 

Paternoster Row, 55, 56. 

Percy, 126, 141. 

Petty France, now York-street, Westmin¬ 
ster, 21. 

Picard, Henry, 11. 

Pope, 88, 138. 

Poultry Compter, 191. 

Public Schools, 79, 80, 81. 


Queen Anne, 269. 

Queen Ann-street, 171. 

Queen Catherine, 213. 

Queen Eleanor, 220. 

Queen Elizabeth, 11; see Frontispiece. 
Queen Victoria, 216. 

Radcliffe, Charles, 277. 

Ilanelagh-gardens, 133. 

Reynolds, Sir Joshua, 134, 147. 

Reynolds, Miss, 139, 141, 152. 

Richard Coeur de Lion, 210. 

Richard ii., 204, 212, 235, 251. 

Richard m., 214, 237. 

Robin Hood debating club, 128. 

Rosewell, Rev. Samuel, 110. 

Royal Academy, 145. 

Royal Feastings, 208-216. 

Royal Society, 94-99. 

Russell, Lord W., 58-69. 

Russell, Lady, 67, 68. 

Sacheverell, Dr., 272. 

Sancroft, Archbishop, 263,.265, 266. 
Sandford Manor House, 82. 

Savoy Chapel, the Savoy Conference, 193. 
Scotland Yard, 21. 

Sebert, king of the Saxons, 201. 
Serjeants-at-law, 241. 

Shades of the departed, 17-198. 
Shakespeare, 13. 

Sheridan, Mr., 282. 

Sion College, almshouse and library, 32. 
Somerset House, 92-96, 99, 145, 147. 
Southampton House, Bloomsbury-square, 
67. 

Spectator, the, 83-85. 

Speed, the historian, 27. 

Star Chamber, the, 255. 

State Trials, 251-266. 

St. Bride’s Church, 35; St. Bride's 
Churchyard, 19. 

St. Catherine's Gaol, 193. 

St. Clement Danes Church, 158. 

St. Dunstan s Church, 34, 50. 

Steele, Sir Richard, 80, 89. 

St. Giles’s Church, Cripplegate, 27. 

St. John's Gate, Clerkenwell, 151. 

St. James’s Coffee House, 88. 

St. James’s Park, 23. 




288 


INDEX. 


St. James’s-square, 150. 

St. Lawrence Jewry Church, King-street, 
Cheapside, 36. 

St. Margaret’s Church, 30. 

St. Martin’s-le-Grand, 20; St. Martin’s- 
street, Leicester-square, 101; St. Mar- 
tin’s-lane, 138. 

St. Paul’s Cathedral, 147,241; St, Paul’s 
Churchyard, 187-8; Old St. Paul’s, 
31; St. Paul’s School, 19. 

Stowe, John, 182, 209, 218, 235. 

Stratford, Lord, 255-258. 

Stratford, Archbishop, 221. 

St. Swithin, 220. 

Surrey, Earl of, 242. 

Sutton, Thomas, 81. 

Swan, in Golden-lane, the, 49. 

Tatler, the, 85. 

Temple, the, 44, 130; Temple Bar, 43, 
57, 128, 164; Brick-court, Temple, 
131; the Temple Church, 134. 

The Seven Bishops and Sacheverell, 262- 
272. 

Thorpe, William, trial of, 221. 

Tothill Fields, Bridewell, 193. 


Tower Hamlets Gaol, Wellclose-square, 
193. 

Tresilian, trial and execution of Judge, 
243, 244. 

Victoria, Queen, 216. 

Vintry, Henry Picard’s Mansion, 11. 
Voltaire, 60. 

Warren Hastings, the trial of, 176-180, 
278-2S3. 

Watling-street, 184. 

Watts, Isaac, 104-121. 

Wesley, John, 80. 

Westminster Abbey, 92,104,121,164,166, 

201 , 202 . 

Westminster Hall, 39, 176, 199. 
Whitechapel Prison, 192. 

Whitehall, 21, 29, 71, 176. 

Widdrington. Lord, 275. 

William i., 203,218 ; William Rufus, 203 ; 
William iv„ 216. 

Wimpole-street, Cavendish-square, 170. 
Winton, Earl, 275. 

Wolsey, Cardinal, 44, 222, 226. 


THE END. 



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